


Clepsydra

by luchia



Series: stupid terrorist boys [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Militant Extremists, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 76,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras knew their past would catch up with them, but he never expected it to happen like this. With Grantaire gone and an unknown enemy pulling strings even Combeferre has trouble seeing, Montparnasse is his only lead to finding out what happened, where Grantaire is, and who twisted all of this together.</p><p>(Or: Enjolras flips his shit and just wants his husband back but Grantaire won't come back to him and won't tell him why beyond that Enjolras didn't fuck up again and Enjolras will do absolutely anything to bring him home because he knows Grantaire is very very not okay.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Musain - Museum - Montparnasse

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO AGAIN FRIENDS
> 
> 1\. A clepsydra is a water clock, aka the only vaguely reliable ancient time-keeping device when the sun goes down. Obviously, sundials don’t work without sunlight. It works through measuring how long it takes for liquid to run out of a container, inch by inch, until there’s nothing left.
> 
> 2\. If you have not read [Gnomon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/729438/chapters/1354908), you will have absolutely no idea what is going on here. I'm sorry! There will be quick bits of refresher information throughout Clepsydra, but for actually fully understanding events, you should definitely have read the first fic in the series. Actually, tbh, you should probably read [all of them](http://archiveofourown.org/series/42515) before tackling Clepsydra. Sorry.
> 
> 3\. There is a stupid terrorist boys tumblr! It contains supplemental information, amazing artworks, and is just chalk full of Gnomony goodness. Here is a link, for your convenience: [gnomonfic.tumblr.com](http://gnomonfic.tumblr.com/)
> 
> 4\. If you absolutely cannot even a little bit deal with suspense, [here is the prologue that spoils a lot of things](http://luchia13.tumblr.com/post/59467019859/more-have-you-met-my-husband-enjolras-asks). (Be strong, friend!)

Enjolras _does not_ want to wake up. His head is throbbing and his throat is dry and fuck, he’s hung over, he has a hangover. He groans but that’s loud and he reaches over for Grantaire, who is gone, and he whines about that too because Grantaire could save him. Grantaire isn’t there, and that’s reasonable because when Enjolras dares to open his eyes it’s already nearing noon, fuck. 

There’s a glass of water and a pill of something or other waiting for him next to the clock on the bedside table, and a note in Grantaire’s distinctive handwriting. Even feeling like a truck slammed into him last night can’t keep him from smiling a little at it. Grantaire absentmindedly writes in an elegantly sweeping cursive that rivals calligraphy.

_Out painting x_  
 _R_

It’s disappointing, but for all Enjolras knows he might have been truly horrible to Grantaire at the fundraiser last night. He doesn’t think he was, but even sober after just over two years together he ends up doing that unintentionally.

He sits up and manages to drink the water Grantaire left out for him, swallowing the pill between mouthfuls of water. It takes a while, but after another few swallows of water he feels vaguely ready to stand up. Because Grantaire is an amazingly beautiful human being, all of the blinds are closed.

Enjolras is standing in the kitchen and staring at the pantry and their cereal collection – all three boxes – when someone knocks on the door. It hurts his head a lot less than he’d expected, which is a good sign. Enjolras is incapable of walking around the apartment naked (alone), so thank god he doesn’t have to struggle his way into clothing again.

“Come in,” Enjolras calls out very quietly, even if it sounds deafening to his own ears.

They knock again, and Enjolras takes a not-quite-desperate drink of his third glass of water before heading over to the door. He’s a shuffling barefoot mess, but he manages to open the door before a third knock comes.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are both standing in front of Enjolras, looking very…something. Fuck, Enjolras is so hung over. They might be too, even if they weren’t at the fundraiser, since there’s something red about their eyes. Red and tired and looking so sad and sympathetic and _fuck_ , what did Enjolras do this time?

“Let’s sit down,” Combeferre says quietly. There’s a shaking to his voice. Enjolras doesn’t like it. Combeferre is unshakeable.

There is something very wrong.

“What happened?” Enjolras asks, but Courfeyrac takes his arm and leads him over to the couch while Combeferre closes and _locks_ the door. This is not good. This is not good at all. He can hear his own frantic heartbeat pulsing through his head. “What’s gone wrong?”

Courfeyrac sits next to Enjolras, and Combeferre hesitates for a moment before sitting on the coffee table to look Enjolras in the eye.

“Just tell me,” Enjolras says, clenching his hands against his knees. “What’s-”

“Grantaire died,” Combeferre says.

Enjolras frowns. “What? I misheard-”

“He died,” Combeferre says, and his voice is cracking and Courfeyrac is dragging Enjolras into a hug and Enjolras has no idea what’s going on. “There was a fire-”

“Wait, what are you,” Enjolras says, and has to stop, because his brain isn’t working. “What do you mean he died?”

“I’m so sorry,” Combeferre says, and he looks like he’s going to start crying and this is all so wrong, it’s _wrong_ , it can’t possibly be true because he can’t be dead, that’s just _ridiculous_. This makes absolutely no sense. Combeferre would never lie to him, but this can’t be true, and he doesn’t like how those two conflict because it’s not logical and Combeferre would never lie but this _can’t be true._ It’s cruel. And Combeferre would never lie to him, and Combeferre is never cruel, but maybe he doesn’t know? Bad information? But Combeferre never has bad information.

“No, he’s just out painting,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre is hugging him right along with Courfeyrac and suddenly Enjolras can’t breathe, can’t find air, because oh god, oh fuck, if they’re doing this it might be true. If they think it’s true, it probably is. “He left a note, he’s not – he left water out.”

“I am so, so sorry,” Combeferre says, and he’s choking the words out, and Courfeyrac is crying too, and Courfeyrac doesn’t cry, he can shake but he never cries and Combeferre is crying too and oh fuck, oh fuck, Enjolras has no idea what to do because it can’t be true, it can’t, it _can’t_ , Grantaire would never leave him like that, nothing could kill him, he’s _Grantaire_. The only thing that’s ever gotten close to killing Grantaire is Grantaire himself, Enjolras would have let the entire world burn just to keep him from being dead for those few seconds in the senate and _oh fuck_

“No,” Enjolras says, and it’s weak and croaking and Courfeyrac’s grip on him tightens and he’s whispering _we’re here for you, Enjolras, it’s okay_ and it is _not_ okay it will _never_ be okay and Enjolras can’t just _sit here_ , he moves and stands and they let him stand and he nearly trips over the fucking coffee table and Combeferre is there keeping him steady and Enjolras almost punches him but catches himself because it’s Combeferre, it’s _Combeferre_ who is telling him this. Enjolras stumbles back and he’s crying and he crumples to the floor and Combeferre is there right along with him trying to hold him and _he doesn’t want that_. He tries to push Combeferre away but he can’t breathe and he’s _sobbing_ , Combeferre is there again and holding him tightly and Enjolras clings because he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there and Grantaire isn’t coming back and it’s so wrong he can’t even imagine it and _he wasn’t there he is always there fuck fuck what did he do_

“You didn’t do anything,” Courfeyrac says, and it’s supposed to be soothing but Enjolras _didn’t do anything._

“But I bring him back, I’ll bring him back,” Enjolras says because that’s how it works Grantaire always comes back Enjolras always brings him back but _Enjolras wasn’t there_ oh fuck

“I’m so sorry,” Combeferre says, and he’s rocking Enjolras back and forth and whispering it over and over and says, “He’s gone,” and so is Enjolras. He cries himself unconscious on the floor.

\---

Enjolras wakes up on the couch (Grantaire practically lived on the couch, it’s where he crashed and lounged and smoked and smiled) and Combeferre is sitting next to him. Enjolras wants to think it was all a dream but one look at Combeferre’s face and he can’t lie to himself. He feels completely dead inside.

“Do you want to know how it happened?” Combeferre asks carefully.

Courfeyrac walks in, and looks between them for a moment before quietly saying, “I think I got everything.” And Combeferre nods, attention still fixed on Enjolras. Enjolras watches Courfeyrac sit down in one of the armchairs, looking exhausted.

Enjolras doesn’t know if he wants to know, but then he nods, and suddenly he _has_ to know. “As much detail as possible,” Enjolras manages to say, even if he barely recognizes his own voice and fuck he’s starting to cry again but neither of them move to comfort him and thank god for that. They’d draped a blanket over him and Enjolras grabs it and presses it to his face and tries to ignore the fact there’s a gaping hole in his soul.

Combeferre swallows before he speaks. “There was a fire at the museum. According to a security guard, he went back in for a missing child-”

“Wait,” Enjolras says, shouts it out, gaping at Combeferre. “The museum?” Combeferre nods. “ _His_ museum?” Again, Combeferre nods, starting to look more than a little worried, and it’s like the sun finally slips out from a fucking hurricane, relief so deep and painful that he has to clutch at the couch because _he’s not dead_.

He must say it aloud, because Courfeyrac says, “Fuck.”

And Combeferre is holding his hands – and Enjolras _immediately_ snatches his hands back, violently so, because that is _not_ for Combeferre. Combeferre curses, which is rare, but he grabs onto Enjolras’ shoulders. “Enjolras. He’s dead. He’s not-”

“No, he’s not,” Enjolras says firmly, and it all makes sense now. It’s why he didn’t know. He would know if Grantaire was _really_ dead, but Combeferre doesn’t understand, and he’s starting to look scared when Enjolras grins. “You don’t – he would never go there, Combeferre. I almost have to physically _drag_ him there.”

Combeferre is starting to cry again, just tears. “Oh, Enjolras,” he says, and then gets a hold of himself and says, “Enjolras, there’s security footage. There’s-”

“Let me see it, then,” Enjolras says firmly, and stands. His legs are shaky, but they hold.

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Combeferre says.

Enjolras glares at him. “You said there’s footage. So _show me it_ ,” he snaps.

“It’s at the museum,” Combeferre says after a moment, and that’s enough for Enjolras. He pulls out his phone, but Combeferre puts a hand on his arm before he can a call a taxi, which is fine. Courfeyrac is on the phone anyway. “Enjolras, it’s _proof_. You understand that, right? The footage hasn’t changed. He’s.” Combeferre stops, looking intently into Enjolras’ eyes. “Enjolras, Grantaire is dead.”

“Prove it,” Enjolras says, and unlocks the front door, striding out while Combeferre calls out about coats and shoes and wallets, but that doesn’t matter.

When he gets downstairs and into ABC’s unofficially private room, it’s quiet and somber and the minute he walks in, what little conversation there was dies immediately. Enjolras is frozen in the doorway, seeing the grieving faces of his friends, feels like he should make a speech or reassure them or explain the situation, but instead he says, “I’m going to clear this up. He’s – this is all a misunderstanding. Or something.”

Joly steps forward to put a careful hand on his shoulder and quietly say, “Maybe you should sit down.”

“No, I don’t have time,” Enjolras says, shaking his head and removing Joly’s hand as politely as possible. “I have to. I have to go sort this out.”

“Enjolras, put on your shoes at least,” Combeferre says, and he sounds like he’s breaking apart but Enjolras feels like Grantaire is pushing him forward, like he couldn’t stop if he wanted. The taxi is already waiting for him, and Enjolras slides in smoothly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac only steps behind him. They leave him squished in the middle seat, and Combeferre looks completely exhausted when he hands Enjolras socks and his shoes. “ _Please_.”

Courfeyrac tells the driver their destination and Enjolras puts his shoes on because it might calm Combeferre down a little. He keeps trying to convince Enjolras that Grantaire is dead, but he’s _not_.

The museum’s still getting water sprayed all over it, even though probably only half of it was actually completely burned down and collapsed. It’s another point in Grantaire’s favor. The police have a perimeter set up around the building and people are swarming around the yellow tape to look, so the taxi has to stop fairly far away. Enjolras steps out after Combeferre opens the door while Courfeyrac pays the driver and stares at the crowd.

The crowd stares right back.

Enjolras expects to have to push his way through, but instead everyone is quiet, only hushed whispers following Enjolras as the crowd parts for him like he’s an icebreaker in the arctic ocean, and the police lift up the tape for him without a word, and everyone looks so _sympathetic_ that Enjolras wonders if he’s going to have to give a press conference or something when the news of Grantaire’s survival has to be shared. Enjolras thinks that can wait. He’s going to curl up in bed with Grantaire for a few months first.

The police are obviously expecting him. One of the higher-ups is waiting next to an emergency vehicle, looking nervous and sympathetic and Enjolras curses himself for coming unarmed. Still, the man shakes his hand and greets him politely and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Show me the footage,” Enjolras says, and that’s all it takes. There’s a van full of people rewinding their way through the security footage, and they all go completely silent when Enjolras slides into the already-cramped quarters. A raised eyebrow gets the other people out, excluding the woman in charge of showing him the appropriate clips. Combeferre and Courfeyrac stand at the open van doors, talking quietly and shooting him worried look after worried look.

“Where do you want to start?” the woman asks, obviously trying to sound professional, but there’s that same what-a-tragedy twinge beneath the words.

“The minute he arrives,” Enjolras says immediately, and the woman wordlessly shifts the screen, until it’s undeniably showing Grantaire walking in the main entrance. When Enjolras slows the video, he recognizes Grantaire’s going-into-battle expression. When he watches Grantaire walk in, there’s the almost imperceptible shifts beneath his coat that Enjolras immediately recognizes. He’s fully armed and _knows_ he’s walking into a fight.

 _Out painting_ , Grantaire’s note had said. A blatant lie, but why? He was completely up front (albeit scream-inducingly vague) when he was meeting _an Interpol agent_. “Who were you meeting?” Enjolras wonders aloud.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras waves him into the van, and Courfeyrac hesitates, but clambers in as well. “He’s armed to the teeth,” he says, and they all politely ignore how the woman looks like she’s about to have a fight or flight reaction.

The video keeps rolling, and Grantaire sneaks his way past any and all employees who might want to talk to him – normal behavior; he likes Sirine at the small gallery, but can’t stand the museum people (“Not everyone enjoys being the center of attention,” he’d grimaced, not quite hiding behind Enjolras at yet another R exhibition). He stops in front of the very first painting, the one with the blood on it. There’s a bench in the room, and there’s already another hat-wearing man sitting on it. Grantaire _tenses_ , and sits next to him.

“Who is that?” Enjolras asks, pointing at the man.

“I don’t know,” the woman says. “But we can find out for you, please-”

“Just keep going,” Enjolras says, and she does.

The camera sees only their backs, and they speak for a while, with Grantaire twitching towards his knives twice in the duration, but never actually drawing. After a while, Grantaire stands and walks out, leaving the other man staring at the painting.

“This is when the fire starts,” the woman says quietly, and the camera shakes, video jerking for a moment.

“It shouldn’t do that,” Combeferre says immediately, and Enjolras turns to look at him. Combeferre is frowning intently at the video. “A fire, it wouldn’t.” He stops, eyes shifting to stare at Enjolras. “The video feed was tampered with.”

“Show me the next part with Grantaire,” he says, barely able to breathe, and the woman obeys. He’s walking alone in another room in the museum, practically _prowling_ , and fuck, Enjolras knows this. Enjolras knows this lazy vicious walk, knows this set to his shoulders, and knows this is _not_ right, it doesn’t belong. He stares at the screen. “This is from a job. He only ever does that when we’re working.”

Combeferre has his phone out, and Courfeyrac quickly hops out of the van to do _something_ , and Enjolras tells the woman to zoom in. It’s horrible resolution, but Enjolras spends a truly ridiculous amount of time staring at Grantaire, so it’s enough. “His hair’s too long, wrong pair of shoes, we had to get rid of those-” Enjolras blinks, and looks up at Combeferre with wide eyes. “This is from the job in Dusseldorf. That was over three years ago.”

“Go back to Grantaire’s first painting,” Combeferre says, and the woman obliges. The man is gone, and everything in the room is still and untouched, despite the fact that on other nearby screens people are rushing through rooms, security guards checking places repeatedly. “Do you have any angles that look into the room?”

They do, and son of a bitch, the man Grantaire had been talking to is fucking stealing the painting. There’s not even much _stealing_ involved - he just pulls it off the wall. He handles art like Enjolras does. He might be stealing the painting, but it’s not precious or breakable to him.

As the video goes on, Grantaire leaves out of a fire exit, only to immediately race back in, which is just more footage from Dusseldorf. People underestimate how similar buildings look, and with a bit of video editing, Enjolras would almost believe it if not for the fact _it’s not Grantaire_. Not the Grantaire of now, at least. The cameras short out soon after, from the fire – which Combeferre doesn’t object to, so Enjolras assumes that at least is a real thing – and it’s the end. The only footage of Grantaire is from three years ago, and in what real footage is left, he’s just fine. Tense, and armed, and very alive.

Grantaire is alive.

The flood of relief is so powerful that his legs give out, loose and exhausted and ready to collapse because fuck, it might be okay now. It could be okay. Combeferre immediately jerks forward and catches him, maneuvering him into one of the small folding chairs next to the woman and her equipment. “Alright, you stay here for a moment while we investigate. Ma’am, will you be okay babysitting him for a moment? He’ll probably just keep staring at nothing.”

“I can keep an eye on him,” the woman says, smiling hesitantly, and Enjolras watches Combeferre leave the van and head somewhere that is undoubtedly important. Combeferre is always doing something important. 

It occurs to him probably seven seconds after Combeferre leaves that there’s much more to look at here. His limbs feel loose and heavy, but he manages to lean over to see the screens again. “Show me the other man’s entrance,” he says.

It takes the woman a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, but she rewinds and shifts to the main entrance. Enjolras can’t tell how much time passed between Grantaire’s entrance and the entrance of whoever met him and stole the painting. There still isn’t a good view of him, but he walks in with a group he immediately slips away from, keeping his hatted down and walking straight to the painting.

Enjolras watches his entrance again, looks at how a few other people break from the pack when they’re through the doors, and asks, “Do you have a view of the exterior?”

She does.

They have to go back nearly twenty minutes to see the hatted man do anything other than wait patiently. A second man sits with him, this one young and wearing sunglasses even when the sky is overcast. Enjolras can’t see whether or not they speak, but body language makes him think that they’re meeting intentionally.

“Follow him,” Enjolras says, but barely needs to. The woman has already fast forwarded, watching the young man wander aimlessly around the museum, not even looking at the art. He does look at the cameras, though – Enjolras has the woman print out one of the clearest images as they keep scrolling through the video.

When the hitch in the video comes, when the fire starts, the man disappears entirely.

He’d been standing in the room that fake-Grantaire walked through to reach the exit, and Enjolras has no idea where he went after that. There’s only two doors, and both have been tampered with. But it’s a better lead than the hatted man. Enjolras has a face for this. And he also has a very good resource for putting a name to a face.

Enjolras sits down in his chair again, still feeling a sense of unbalance that he is _not_ happy about, but if it gets Grantaire back sooner, Enjolras doesn’t care. Thankfully, either Combeferre or Courfeyrac stuffed his phone into his coat pockets earlier. He scrolls quickly through his contacts, hoping he won’t just go to voicemail like normally. The only person Enjolras knows that Gavroche immediately picks up for is Grantaire.

It barely takes one ring for Gavroche to pick up and quickly ask, “He’s alive, right?”

“But missing,” Enjolras says. “I need you to tell me if you recognize-”

“If they’re crooked, I know them,” Gavroche says simply. “I’ll be there in two minutes. You still in the van?”

Enjolras has no idea how Gavroche is doing this, but he eventually just gave up on arguing with Gavroche about his impossible supernatural Paris powers. Being a teenager has just made everything about Gavroche twenty times more impossible in every way, and Enjolras can barely sit up straight right now, so he just says, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Gavroche says, and hangs up.

It leaves Enjolras in the van with the awkward woman, who is watching Enjolras like there’s a tiger instead of a man relieved to the point of almost falling over. Enjolras doesn’t know if he should try to keep ignoring her, or try out small talk, or something. 

He doesn’t have to worry about it for long, though, since Gavroche is true to his word, hopping into the van with absolutely no warning. Enjolras will never, ever understand Gavroche. He knows Grantaire has some sort of agreement with him, some sort of camaraderie that manages to be protective but respectful, and he’s never understood that either. But it means that Gavroche is just as dedicated to figuring out what’s happened to him. Enjolras assumes that same drive is what leads Gavroche to just immediately try to grab the picture out of Enjolras’ hands.

“Give it,” Gavroche says.

“What do you know about what’s happened here?” Enjolras asks. If he has to fill Gavroche in on this, maybe give him some context-

“Oh, this is Montparnasse,” Gavroche says, and he’s holding the picture. Enjolras’ hands are empty.

That kind of thievery just isn’t normal.

Gavroche frowns at the picture, and then Enjolras. “Thought you got out of this stuff,” he says, and tilts the image to the side for some reason.

“Out of what stuff?” Enjolras asks.

“The murder-for-hire business,” Gavroche says with a shrug, and the woman in the van makes a noise that isn’t quite a whimper.

“I’ll give you some space,” she says carefully, and presses her way past Gavroche to step out of the van. Interestingly, she closes the doors behind her.

“So he’s an assassin,” Enjolras says.

“He’s an anything that pays,” Gavroche says, and hands the picture back. “Montparnasse isn’t someone to just walk up to and start demanding answers.” He thinks for a moment, and then says, “Maybe if you walked up with a gun. Maybe.”

It sounds like a pretty good plan to Enjolras. He nods, and after a moment remembers to point at the recording, specifically at the clearest picture of the hatted man. “Do you know this person?”

“Nope,” Gavroche says, and pulls a pen from the desk that has the monitors on it. He plucks the picture back out of Enjolras’ hands and writes an address on the back. “Should be there right now. What do you want him for, anyway?”

“He’s probably in contact with the man who took Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

Gavroche raises his eyebrows. “ _Took_ Grantaire,” he says, obviously thinking Enjolras has lost his mind.

But he does have a point, and Enjolras always ends up snapping down to Gavroche’s age when they talk, which he hates. It doesn’t keep him from rolling his eyes like he’s fourteen again and says, _“Fine_ , maybe it was more encouraging to leave than actually taking him.”

“So he left on his own,” Gavroche says. “Huh. You sure he _wants_ to be found?”

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

“He’s left you before,” Gavroche points out. “Maybe you fucked up again.”

It’s the same thought Enjolras had woken to, the same fear that he’s fucked up again, that he’s destroyed the impossible _good_ life they’ve made with each other. They are so stupidly happy, so wonderfully tangled in each other in so many ways. Enjolras can’t think of a single thing he could’ve fucked up so badly that Grantaire would leave him. His days are more than a little tame compared to the last time Grantaire walked out on him.

And he needs to stop thinking of it like that – Grantaire did the smart thing. Grantaire did the ethical thing. Grantaire did what needed to be done, and that’s all. Grantaire walking armed into a museum he hates and meeting a stranger who then steals his painting after lighting the building on fire isn’t something Grantaire would do. He might hate his own work, but he would’ve been in physical pain to see the rest go up in flames.

“I’m not why he left,” Enjolras says, and it’s true. It has to be.

“All I’m saying is there’s a reason for it,” Gavroche says. “Maybe leaving him alone’s the best thing to do.”

“Says the boy who thinks stopping suicide attempts is selfish of me,” Enjolras says.

Gavroche just shrugs, unrepentant and just so completely unfathomable that Enjolras has to grit his teeth.

“Oh yeah, Montparnasse is kind of,” Gavroche says, and makes a gesture that Enjolras has no way of understanding. It’s a flat hand wiggling back and forth, like a rocking lifeboat. “So watch out for that.”

Enjolras frowns. He has no idea what to say, so he settles for, “Thank you?”

“Sure,” Gavroche says, and just leaves, opens the doors and hops out of the van and then vanishes into the emergency services chaos outside of this small video-filled sanctuary.

There’s no point in just _waiting_ , not when Grantaire is gone, so Enjolras decides to follow Gavroche’s lead. He has an address, and it’s not too far away. In fact, it’s the perfect distance away from the museum, actually – far enough away to not run the chance of being interviewed, close enough that you could hustle back before the authorities closed down the area. It means he’s a professional, or at least has experience with unquiet crime.

His legs are still shaky and the world somehow seems narrower, focused entirely on getting to the third floor room that Gavroche claims this Montparnasse man is in.

\---

Combeferre was wrong. He was wrong, and it bites into his skin, and he tries to remain calm. He isn’t going to explode or be bitter about this. No, Combeferre is going to fix it.

He’s aware that there are other uses of his time. There are almost always other uses of his time. However, the image of Enjolras crying on the floor because of Combeferre’s misinformation drives him forward to the insurance agents already muttering about what a mess their paperwork will be. The museum’s owner looks just as heartbroken as Enjolras had, but he doesn’t have the luxury of friends ready to support him (or the slim hope that it isn’t true), so Combeferre bypasses him in his search for information.

More often than not, Combeferre makes a point of looking presentable, respectable and using the ingrained attention a tie brings out. It makes people much more likely to listen and take him seriously. At the moment, he looks more like an overly pretentious hipster, but that’s what happens when you throw clothing on at 6 in the morning after a night with Courfeyrac. Still, the insurance company’s agents listen when he approaches and asks, “Do you have the ticket sales records for this morning?”

It’s a busy time for everyone, and it means that the police are lax in keeping things from the insurance agents, and the insurance agents don’t exactly know who is with them and who is with another group, so Combeferre isn’t surprised when one of the agents nods her head and points to a salvaged desktop computer. “We’re sending it down to the lab first thing tomorrow-”

“No need. I was hoping to look at it right now, actually,” Combeferre says, giving her a small smile. It’s returned with gratitude, relief that someone’s actually getting something done in this mess. “Would you get in trouble if I took it, or-”

“Oh no, by all means,” she says. “If you can get information off of that thing, please, do it.”

And Combeferre does.

There isn’t a single protest when he picks up the desktop’s tower and carries it off, meeting Courfeyrac on the way. He’s dealing with press on the other side of the police line, and on the phone with someone (Joly, it sounds like), and he sounds like a frazzled blend of elation and stress.

“We don’t know anything, we’re just trying to – okay, really, are you actually surprised that he came here? Really? And don’t get me – no, the investigation is ongoing, I can’t – argh, why can’t you just wait for a statement? It’s not like you’re getting different information,” Courfeyrac is saying, words tossed between two people and the phone, and Combeferre has no idea what’s directed towards who. When Courfeyrac spots Combeferre, he immediately drops the reporters and hustles over. “Please tell me you know what’s happening.”

Combeferre frowns, and shifts so that any particularly interested reporters can’t read their lips. “Enjolras is mostly collapsed in the van from relief, I’ve commandeered the museum’s sales records in order to figure out who tricked me, and-”

“Tricked you?” Courfeyrac echoes, which Combeferre knows isn’t a reflection on Combeferre being tricked. Of course it isn’t.

“Tricked us,” Combeferre amends, which elicits an amused noise from Courfeyrac. Still, Combeferre puts a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm, making sure he’s paying attention. “But the fact remains that someone did manage to fool us, Courfeyrac. Whoever this is, he’s good.”

“Not that good, though,” Courfeyrac says. “It still only took one look at the tape.”

Combeferre knows it’s more than that. Whoever was behind this managed to obtain rare footage that Combeferre thought he’d wiped three years ago, managed to manipulate Grantaire into coming into the museum, and infinitely more concerning, managed to manipulate him into leaving Enjolras. Not even the senate incident managed to do that. Their opponent is either dangerously competent, or has been planning this for years. Or, as Combeferre is beginning to suspect with a brick-in-the-ocean feeling pulling at his heart, a very dedicated combination of the two.

But the enemy managed to make Combeferre hurt Enjolras, and that isn’t something he can push away. He doesn’t have a temper and he is not upset. He is very calm and reasonable and collected.

“Okay, listen to me,” Courfeyrac says, and it shows how much concern he has for the reporters that he turns Combeferre by the shoulders, twists him so they’re facing each other directly. “It’s going to be fine. Grantaire can more than take care of himself, right? Fuck knows he could take us apart in a fight. And we’re old pros at taking care of Enjolras, so we don’t have to worry about that.”

It’s always nice to have an optimist around.

“We can do this. I’ve got everyone seeing if they have contacts who might know anything,” Courfeyrac says, and does that thing of his where he grins and gently bops Combeferre up beneath his chin, making his teeth lightly clack together, saying, “Chin up, Combeferre!”

It might not always be nice to have an optimist around.

“I hope you’re right,” Combeferre says, and shifts his grip on the computer. “I’m going to head back home after checking on Enjolras. Maybe I can get a look at whatever information is on here about whoever planned this.” It’s a better use of his time than anything else he can think of here. Enjolras just needs to sit for a while. He sighs. “But for the love of god, do not let Enjolras in front of a camera after I leave. He’d never forgive himself later.”

Courfeyrac nods, smiling. “Consider it done,” he says, and cheerily walks back over to the mass of humanity on the other side of the yellow tape.

Combeferre looks down at the computer and barely restrains a sigh at the idea of carrying this up all of the stairs that stand between the street and Combeferre’s apartment. He’s been lax on exercising, ever since they stopped their (more) criminal activities, and he should’ve known he would pay for it.

He should’ve kept up with more than just the physical aspects. He’s slipping. He’s losing his edge, and Combeferre refuses to slip any further. He feels like there’s something bigger and more dangerous than thievery and manipulation going on here. Even worse, he feels like he should already be able to tell what it is. Combeferre feels like he’s come into a board game five moves behind. He’s five moves behind, and he made Enjolras so needlessly upset that it makes him burn with shame and hatred towards whoever did this. Whoever beat him.

When he gets to the van, the doors are closed, which is unusual, but not particularly concerning. Combeferre places the tower on the pavement below and carefully opens one of the doors to see the video technician, and videos, and equipment, and an empty chair that should definitely have an Enjolras in it.

He sighs, resigned, because he really shouldn’t have expected this to go easily. At least the woman looks embarrassed and only slightly worried that Combeferre is going to kill her. “Any idea where he went?” Combeferre asks.

“A young man came in and they spoke and then I gave them some space and when I came back they were gone, I’m sorry,” she says quickly.

Combeferre nods. It only takes a few more questions to figure out it was Gavroche, which spells absolutely nothing good. There are very few people who can safely deal with Gavroche, and Enjolras is not one of them. He always means well, but Gavroche’s definition of _meaning well_ is a mystery that only Grantaire and Eponine seem remotely capable of solving.

“The video was paused on the man who stole the painting, though,” she adds. “If that’s any help.”

It doesn’t, but he still says, “Thank you for all of your help.” She smiles hesitantly at him, and Combeferre is more than happy to shut her in.

He leans his head against the closed doors, and wishes he’d installed a subdermal tracking device in Enjolras when he had the chance all those years ago.

\---

Enjolras knows this is a really terrible idea. He knows that he’s unarmed and still more than a little bit scatterbrained and he hasn’t done a single shred of research on whoever the fuck Montparnasse is, doesn’t know the floorplan of the building, let alone the apartment, doesn’t know much of what he looks like beyond a thin face and dark hair and the fact Gavroche recognized him instantly means something. And so did that hand-wiggle, probably, but the point is that Enjolras is in front of the door and he knows he shouldn’t be but fuck it. He wants Grantaire.

He doesn’t have a gun and probably wouldn’t be able to break down the ominously heavy wooden door when he’s in this state. Opening doors was almost always Grantaire’s department, but he does remember the very first trick he learned accidentally for breaking and entering.

Enjolras turns the doorknob, and it opens easily, smooth and barely even clicking when he pushes the door open.

This probably isn’t a good sign. If a door is left unlocked, it’s usually because people think there’s nothing that needs protecting inside.

He swings the big wooden door open anyway. Heavy as it is, the hinges swing wide and smooth, and Enjolras is looking into a small studio apartment with horrible dark brown walls. He can hear the shower running, but if Gavroche is to be believed, that doesn’t mean much. Enjolras looks around – at the mussed bed against the wall, the unused Paris-sized kitchen, the rust-colored suitcases against the hideous wall.

It’s a beginner’s mistake – it’s a fucking _stupid_ mistake is what it is – when he takes one more step into the apartment and his feet are kicked out from under him by the man who had been waiting patiently on the other side of the door. Enjolras twists, steps wide to catch himself and see who it is he has to hurt, but it doesn’t work. The man takes him down embarrassingly fast, heel swiping one foot out from him as his arms wrap around Enjolras, hands pressing Enjolras’ tight against his back, and Enjolras braces himself to hit the hardwood beneath them.

Instead, a drawling low-class voice says, “Well, hel _lo_ there.”

It takes Enjolras a moment to realize he’s more or less being forcibly dipped by his opponent. He’s dark-haired and pretty in a way Enjolras can’t remember seeing out of his own gene pool. He’s also definitely the man that Gavroche identified for him, so Enjolras gets control of the urge to grimace and says, “You’re Montparnasse.”

“Gonna try and kill me if I let you go?” he asks.

“No,” Enjolras answers. “I need you alive.”

For some reason, that makes Montparnasse grin. It’s a wide, unsettling thing. “Knew I’d like you,” he says, and shifts his grip and Enjolras has nothing but a moment to think _I already fucking hate you_ before Montparnasse steps back and Enjolras hits the floor. “So. Enjolras. What do you want?”

He didn’t fall very far, but having his hands trapped beneath his back didn’t do him any favors. Enjolras glares at Montparnasse from the floor, and pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Tell me about your part in the museum fire,” Enjolras says.

Montparnasse shrugs. “Did what the boss told me to,” he says. “Got paid. Moved on. And don’t ask for a name, because I don’t have one. Just a first name that’s probably a fake.”

“So you’re useless to me,” Enjolras says, biting the words out and pulling himself back onto his feet.

Montparnasse’s ugly grin vanishes. “I’ll be all kinds of useful for the right price,” he says, and obviously means it. 

What the kind of useful is on the table here, Enjolras can’t even guess, so he decides to just go with the answer he wants. “I want every shred of information you have on the man who hired you,” Enjolras says. “I want to know what he looked like. I want to know what he sounded like. I want to know exactly what he had you do, I want to know every single word out of his mouth about what he was doing and why, and I want you to be very, very fast about saying it.”

Montparnasse looks him over, green eyes curious. “You’re hunting him, then,” Montparnasse says, and leans against the closest wall. “You’re going to go out and catch and kill him.”

That isn’t exactly Enjolras’ main goal here, what with how his hands itch and his heart feels cold and he can’t smell cigarette smoke loyally following him forever, but Montparnasse doesn’t need to know that. “I’m going to kill him,” Enjolras agrees.

And he will.

Montparnasse nods. “Here’s a deal then,” he says. “You take me with you, full expenses paid for the hunt, and I tell you everything you want for free. You can kill him, that’s fine, but I want to rough him up a bit. Cut him, make him bleed. You can finish him off, though.”

Enjolras wants to bite out _I already have a partner_ , or walk out, or laugh in Montparnasse’s face because whatever this is, whatever reason is driving Montparnasse to ask for this, it’s ridiculous. Ridiculous, and foolish. He ends up smirking at the other man. It probably doesn’t look very nice. “You want me to pay you for tagging along while I do all the work.”

“Think of me as a treasure map. I’ll get you there, but you’ve got to bring me along on the trip,” Montparnasse says, completely unbothered by the idea. He shrugs. “You could use a hand anyway, with how rusty you are. You’ve been out of the business far too long.”

It doesn’t help that when he was in the business, he had Grantaire. In the end, Enjolras rarely even worried about it – he attacked, Grantaire defended, they moved on.

The idea of travelling and working and existing in the same close quarters with someone who isn’t Grantaire is shudder-inducing, makes Enjolras grimace just looking at Montparnasse. Enjolras would be hesitant to do this with anyone, let alone whatever the fuck Montparnasse is.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “I follow contracts,” he says. “If there’s an agreement, I do my part of it.”

“And the hatted man didn’t,” Enjolras says, which makes sense. Mostly.

“There’s some outstanding bits, yeah,” Montparnasse says. “I have a reputation. I’d like to keep it.”

Enjolras knows it’s a horrible idea, but it’s the best one he has right now. Montparnasse is his only lead to finding out what happened and where Grantaire is and who twisted all of this together. He loathes it and doesn’t exactly care for Montparnasse, with his slick smiles and – are his pants silver? Jesus fuck, the man’s wearing silver pants.

With a sinking suspicion, he looks back at the four large suitcases against the wall. “I travel light,” Enjolras states.

“Me too,” Montparnasse says, and moves forward to slide a hand over Enjolras’ shoulder, which is not remotely acceptable. Enjolras grabs his wrist before it gets any further along and ducks behind Montparnasse, kicking the backs of his calves. It sends Montparnasse to his knees, shoulder wrenched back and gritting his teeth as he bites down on only God knows what. Profanity is likely. Threats are even more likely.

“You don’t touch me, hit on me, or look at me as anything other than a colleague. You remember I’m married and looking for my husband. I have goals and priorities and you don’t feature on any list I have ever made in my entire fucking life, Montparnasse. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” Montparnasse says, not even a little bit penitent, but it’s about as much as Enjolras expected from his kind.

During his (their) darker days, he’d acclimatized to dealing with the broken minotaurs of the underworld. Enjolras takes a deep breath, adjusting his grip on Montparnasse so that he’s not in actual pain, and tries to remember how to deal with this. Now, it’s a twist of disdain and pity and the warring urge to both fix what causes people like Montparnasse’s downfall, and the urge to permanently remove Montparnasse for the good of everyone else in society. 

Enjolras can respect people like Grantaire, or gang members. He can respect criminals with loyalty and codes. True mercenaries like Montparnasse, he has a difficult time not disregarding entirely.

But he needs Montparnasse, for now. “Tell me what name he gave you,” he says.

“That mean we have a deal?” Montparnasse asks. Enjolras responds by pulling tightly on Montparnasse’s shoulder hard enough that he knows it has to hurt, knows that other people would be shouting. Montparnasse doesn’t make a sound at the motion, a sharper inhale the only sign of pain. “He called himself Reichard.”

“Reichard,” Enjolras repeats to himself, carving the name into his mind. He lets Montparnasse go, and the other man still doesn’t gasp or shout. He simply falls forward, takes a moment, and then stands back up. Enjolras doesn’t wait to see what else he does, choosing instead to head out again. “You can bring two suitcases of equipment. Be at the Musain in three hours.”

“But-” Montparnasse objects, and Enjolras really doesn’t care. He walks out the door and lets the heavy wood slam shut behind him.

He has things to do.


	2. Musain - Gare de Lyon; {Tripoli}

Enjolras doesn't know how, but he gets back to the Musain. He walks up the back stairs, avoids the cafe entirely as he heads back to his apartment.

The door is hanging limply off of its hinges, the wood and locks smashed apart and left in jagged splinters on the floor. The hallway is quiet, but that means nothing. 

He’s already had one awkward experience today from recklessly charging in, but this time he knows the area intimately, walks these floors blind and tired and fumbling his way on and off of furniture. Enjolras carefully pushes the door open, and can barely recognize his home beneath the mess it’s become. Furniture is overturned, plates are broken, drawers are thrown open, and it’s a complete disaster zone.

Nobody would be stupid enough to rob them – if ABC didn’t find whoever did this, Gavroche certainly would – so Enjolras isn’t even a little bit surprised to see that nothing valuable is missing. The rarely-used flat screen TV is still on the wall, the Matisse is still hanging on the wall, not to mention the rest of the artwork Enjolras has finally convinced Grantaire to hang on the walls. This was very, very obviously not about money. The only valuable he can tell is missing is the laptop.

Enjolras enters cautiously, even if he already knows the perpetrators are gone. His home is ripped apart, but it’s only furniture and the sort of things that are easily replaceable, things that neither of them really care about. It’s almost like someone broke in and wrecked the place simply because they could.

Which isn’t something Enjolras is overly worried about, really. He likes his home, likes having somewhere to come home to and relax and just _exist_ , but in the end, it’s only things.

Grantaire will probably be upset, though, since they broke the wine rack and some of that was _very_ nice wine.

Enjolras walks carefully towards the bedroom, dodging broken shards of glass and ceramic and the occasional bit of fluff from cut-up pillows, and it takes no time at all to see that the criminals _did_ take something. Namely, clothing. And toiletries. And the duffle bag. Packing isn’t going to be easy.

And he still can’t _think_ , knows there’s so many things he should be able to just connect and it should be two plus two equals four but instead he’s sitting on their bed and frowning at the empty dresser, the open drawers that just a few hours ago held their intermingled clothing. And maybe that’s what this is. It’s a fucked up message that someone broke into their lives and took everything Grantaire, everything _them_ , away from him.

He’s going to get it back.

There isn’t much time, not if he wants to be ready to move in three hours, so Enjolras forces himself to _think_ already, as if he can will his brain into functionality. It’s not like he has Grantaire with him every single second of the day, it’s important that they cultivate separate interests. He should just get over this already, maybe concentrate on something else, like taking a quick inventory.

The stairs up to the storage room are perfectly intact, and the moment Enjolras sets foot on the upper floor he realizes something’s wrong. Whoever broke in didn’t even try to hide what they’d been after – every single item that could even get close to being considered weaponry is missing. The walls are bare, and the innocuous drawers on the landing are completely empty.

He doesn’t start to really worry until he realizes he can’t get inside of the room they keep the actual weaponry in, weapons and ammunition and paintings and anything Enjolras (or Grantaire, or any of the members of ABC who ask to use it) locks away to keep safe and secure and unthreatened. And somehow, whoever broke in locked him out. It’s a seven digit keypad code and Enjolras stands in front of the door, stunned, putting in the code over and over again and watching the tiny light on the top beep red, red, red, when all he wants is _green_.

Enjolras doesn’t know how long he frantically punches numbers in, only knows that he keeps trying until he hears a sound downstairs. It’ no little bit reminiscent of Grantaire drunkenly stumbling into a chair, but the quiet cursing that comes after it is very, very different. It’s accented, although Enjolras can’t tell what accent it is, not from mutterings this far away.

Caution is important here, so he forces himself to move away from the keypad and carefully look downstairs. There’s a man dressed in solid dark grey clothing, sliding white-gloved fingers over the wall, like he’s looking for a secret compartment that really definitely doesn’t exist. And Enjolras still has no weapons, which is _infuriating_ , but he _needs_ to know what this man knows, needs to know what he’s trying to find, needs to know who the fuck told him there’s something in the walls.

Enjolras has a burning-hot suspicion that whoever told him to do this is calling himself Reichard.

He doesn’t know what he does wrong – Enjolras slides forward, walking as quietly as possible, and he’s barely made it five steps down the stairs before the man looks up at him and runs out the door, and _fuck_. Enjolras jumps over the stairs’ railing and ignores how unused to this his body is now when he starts running after the criminal, heart already pounding, breath already coming fast as he tries to at least beat him to the elevator, grab him before he gets inside and closes the gate between them. He’s steps away, heartbeats too slow, and the man has the gate shut.

“It’s a very, very slow elevator,” Enjolras tells him, already running towards the stairs, and tries to think for a moment, tries to figure out what the man will do - but it’s obvious, he knows his only chance is the first floor. The stairwell in his building is impossible to jump, and he has never hated the Musain before this very minute, trying to get down two flights of stairs as quickly as possible.

When he’s out the door and on the ground level, he pushes the door open with enough force that it smashes into the wall, and it makes the grey-clad man glance back, makes him lose his stride just for a moment, just long enough for Enjolras to get in arm’s reach. He stretches, and his fingers touch cotton, but it’s not enough. The man lurches forward, tilts just enough for Enjolras to grab nothing but air, and he bites out _shit_ as they tear out the side door and into the alley.

The old stones are just irregular enough that Enjolras stumbles. The man immediately takes advantage of it, pulls a sharp right at the next intersection, and Enjolras is too busy trying to breathe, trying to get past the pathetic burning in his lungs and legs, thinking _catch him catch him CATCH HIM_ to notice anything else.

He turns the corner, and the grey man punches him in the stomach, Enjolras practically doing all of the work for him as he loses his breath from the impact. He hunches over, physically incapable of fighting the urge to gasp and cough, but he does manage get a hand in the man’s thick shirt. Enjolras grips it like the edge of a cliff, glaring as he fights to breathe.

The man in grey pats at his pockets, saying, “Oh god, oh god, fuck-” before pulling out a pistol.

Enjolras barely has time to blink and think _fuck_ before a shot cracks through the stale air in the alley, and it’s only his experience working with Grantaire that keeps Enjolras still. His mind associates threat coupled with gunfire with _Grantaire_ and _safety_ and he loosens his hold on the man in grey just in time to watch a bullet shoot through the top of his head. It’s an excellent shot, one angled so that it wouldn’t hit Enjolras regardless of whether or not it hit its target, and Enjolras stays where he is, rigidly bent over his stomach, watching the man fall to the cobblestones.

“Goddamn, that’s a lot of blood you got on you,” the gunman says, and Enjolras is only a little surprised to see Montparnasse at the mouth of the alley, smiling and holding a handgun lazily, as if the barrel isn’t even a little hot. As Enjolras looks at him, trying to decide what to think or feel or do or ask, Montparnasse shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Enjolras says.

“I know, right?” Montparnasse says, and holsters his gun beneath his jacket before walking over nodding at the grey man. “Who is he?”

“Someone who could’ve answered a lot of questions,” Enjolras says, biting the words out, because this idiot just killed his best clue to finding Grantaire.

“Yeah, maybe after he shot you in the face. You looked real in control of that situation,” Montparnasse says. He crouches down next to the body, carefully keeping nothing but his feet in the blood slowly coating the cobblestones. “You want to do the honors?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks.

Montparnasse pulls a pair of blue surgical gloves out of a pocket and snaps them on before carelessly tossing the grey man’s still-twitching body onto its back. Enjolras gapes, something squirming up his spine for no reason Enjolras can think of, no reason at all. He must make a noise of some sort, because Montparnasse pauses to look up at Enjolras and roll his eyes, saying, “Christ, don’t be such a _baby_. It’s not like you never looted a corpse.”

Enjolras honestly can’t remember doing more than checking the pockets of a long-dead body.

“I knew your husband had the dirtier hands, but _Jesus_ , yours must’ve been sparkly clean. This must be really embarrassing for you,” Montparnasse says, shaking his head, and then goes back to pulling wet warm cloth off of the body. He’s careful about keeping blood off of his clothing, but that’s the only care he takes – the grey man’s body is casually rolled and tossed across the alley as Montparnasse checks pockets.

When he tosses a wallet at Enjolras in between rubber-blue hands diving into pockets, Enjolras barely manages to catch it.

This part, at least, Enjolras can do. Hopefully without commentary. The contents are pretty much as one would expect from a criminal – no ID, just cash and receipts and a couple of unused metro tickets that tell Enjolras absolutely nothing other than that he intended to go somewhere else in Paris after he tried to bash a hole into Enjolras’ walls. The cash isn’t particularly telling, either, just enough to get by for two or three days comfortably.

The receipts are more helpful, barely. He had dinner at a nearby restaurant and paid for two, he bought breakfast at a nearby bakery, again for two. What’s more telling is the fact the grey man even had them, since it means he was probably expecting to be reimbursed for business expenses.

“Well this is neat,” Montparnasse says, and waves what looks suspiciously like a train ticket though the air. There’s blood on one of the edges. “Leaves for Lyon in under an hour.”

The grey man was obviously working with a partner, going by the receipts. If there’s one partner on the train, it’s very, very likely there’s a second one.

“And yeah, that’s where we’re headed,” Montparnasse adds, as if it’s nothing but an addendum, some sort of miscellaneous fact.

There’s no choice other than getting on the train.

“I’ve got enough stuff to work for the two of us,” Montparnasse says, motioning towards further down the alley, where four hideous rust-colored suitcases are sitting. “You can get your shit shipped.”

“I said two suitcases,” Enjolras says, but he doesn’t have time to really object, not if he wants to get to Gare de Lyon and the train and to _answers_. He grimaces, and slings one of the carrying bags over his shoulder, one of the rolling bags on his other side, and starts walking.

“You said two for equipment,” Montparnasse says, grabbing the other two cases and tagging along at the same quick-step pace. “You’re not gonna bitch this whole time, are you?”

Fuck, he misses Grantaire. Grantaire would know what to say to make this bastard _shut up_. The best Enjolras can do is say, “I fucking swear to god if you don’t hold up your end of this deal-”

“Bitch and hate me all you want, but I _never_ go bad on a deal,” Montparnasse says. He sounds genuinely insulted, which makes some sense, since the entire reason he is involved in this is an incomplete bargain. “Don’t respect me? Fine. But you sure as fuck better respect _that_ , sunshine.”

Enjolras stops walking because _what the fuck_ , he stands there giving Montparnasse a disbelieving and probably more than a little disgusted look. “If you ever call me sunshine again, I am going to throw whichever one of these suitcases you love most onto train tracks. Preferably ones we aren’t on, so you have to watch it happen.”

Montparnasse just shrugs. Enjolras can see the displeased twitch to his lips, though. It’s minute, but it’s enough that Enjolras knows it got through to him.

“Let’s go,” Enjolras says, and goes back to charging towards the train, Montparnasse not quite kicking at his heels.

\---

Combeferre’s apartment is just as large as it needs to be, and has served him well for the past five years. He likes the light, and the shelves he built into the wall, and the small pieces of history that slowly accumulated on every open surface. He likes the building, and he likes the landlord, and thankfully the landlord likes him too.

The lack of an elevator is occasionally frustrating, though. Particularly when you’ve been carrying an outdated desktop tower for twenty minutes. It’s cumbersome and sharp against his palms, what with having been burned in a massive fire. After he unlocks his door and manages to kick it closed behind him, Combeferre heads directly for his workstation.

More often than not, Combeferre works in the room ABC has claimed as its own at the Musain. He loves his friends, loves having a second opinion readily available. It’s likely that the room is pure chaos at the moment, though, and Combeferre needs to concentrate, because he needs to find whoever is doing this, and he needs to find out as quickly as possible, before their plans escalate.

And they _will_ escalate. Combeferre doesn’t doubt that for a moment. Whoever tricked him would never stop there, not if there was a chance that they’d discover his trick. God knows Combeferre wouldn’t.

He trusts Courfeyrac to deal with the rest of them. When it comes to _people_ , Courfeyrac is the best by far – he’ll find Enjolras and he’ll settle their friends down and everything will be fine. And while Combeferre has no clue what to do about Grantaire, he knows the man can definitely take care of himself, with or without his occasionally unsettling attachment to Enjolras. It’s a reciprocal thing, of course, which means Enjolras is probably in desperate need of a hug.

Normally, Combeferre would be out there with his friends, helping them readjust and start the search for Grantaire. Normally, that’s what he would do. But right now, he strips apart the burnt hard drive and starts tinkering because there’s something uncomfortable and _furious_ inside of him.

It’s a cold anger, and an anger he is fighting very hard to keep under control. Before, when he had Enjolras directly in front of him and in immediate distress, Combeferre had been able to shove it out of his mind. But now, his mind just keeps circling back to the fact _someone tricked me, someone made me hurt my best friend, someone_ defeated _me_. He’s not an arrogant man, but tossing that kind of emotional pain at Enjolras is trapped in his heart. Over and over again, Combeferre sees Enjolras sobbing on the floor, and it _hurts_ , and it makes Combeferre want to hurt something.

He knows there’s a direct cause, beyond missing the (admittedly not very obvious) clues. This was intentional, this was _made_ to inflict pain. Combeferre is going to stop it, and he’s going to do it _now_.

The hard drive is burned and ripped apart, but there’s no such thing as completely unsalvageable data, not unless it’s been liquefied or something similarly horrible. The fire didn’t completely destroy it, so it’s a much easier job of getting it hooked up and (comparatively) accessible than the insurance agent he’d spoken with had probably known.

Once that’s done, Combeferre has an easy time of getting to the actual records. He has nothing but credit card numbers, and occasional bank account numbers. He’s almost completely certain the man didn’t pay with cash, which means that his biggest clue will be found here. It’s no easy matter to find the precise ticket purchase, either.

He ends up with a good twenty potential candidates, but thankfully he took the time to write down time stamps while Enjolras frantically scanned his way through the video footage of Grantaire. That knocks it down to five candidates, which is much more manageable. He’d prefer fewer, of course, but he has time.

The first step is to find who belongs to what bank account, which he manages to do fairly easily, to a point. Combeferre usually does this search the opposite way, seeking bank accounts for their owner instead of owners by bank account, but he manages. Mostly. Some banks are trickier than others, and Combeferre doesn’t have the time to sit and do dedicated coding or tinkering or ‘hacking’ (he hates that term) to find information. Still, some illegal searching of the deeper areas of the internet leave him with only two other unknown candidates.

Thankfully, Combeferre has been in situations similar to this before. In all honesty, the easiest way to get confidential information tends to be through simple human error.

He invented ABC Insurance probably eight years ago, solely for this reason. If Combeferre has an actual insurance agency, and is credited as an actual insurance agent, and has every bit of legal documentation available, it doesn’t matter how illegally he obtained it. To the untrained eye, he’s exactly what he says he is.

When Candidate #1’s bank picks up, Combeferre doesn’t give them time to speak. Knocking someone off their feet immediately is another simple but effective tactic. “The fire at the museum, I’m an insurance agent, I’m investigating visitors and I could _really_ use your help, it’s a pretty quick thing,” Combeferre says. He speaks rapidly, _urgently_ , and it has the desired effect.

“Shit, that’s right, is everyone okay? I mean, sorry, what can I do for you?” the flustered man on the other end says.

“I just need the name that goes with this bank account,” Combeferre says, and reads the number off. This, at least, he enunciates clearly.

If he was asking for the reverse, red flags would already be raised from that alone. But in these circumstances, the man doesn’t even pause.

“Of course, let me see here,” the man says.

It’s important to not let him examine this more closely, so Combeferre continues speaking. “It’s a mess down here, I’ve been bashing my way through data all morning and I’m going to have nightmares about the paperwork. I’m trying to find one man, try to see if he’s one of the people in the fire, but I managed to narrow it down to-”

“Combeferre,” the man says.

Shit.

Combeferre isn’t in the press very often. It’s almost entirely Enjolras, and Grantaire via ever-present accompaniment. He’s made a point of it. Courfeyrac is the non-Enjolras face of ABC, because Combeferre knows that someone has to be held back. Someone has to be ready, just in case. And he was supposed to be ready and he _wasn’t_ , and somehow even this has gone wrong.

“Reichard Combeferre,” the man continues. “Do you want the home address too, or-”

“That’s the name on the account?” Combeferre asks, and feels very cold. “Reichard Combeferre?”

“That’s what I have, yes,” the man says, cautious. “Is there something wrong?”

Combeferre’s first name isn’t Reichard. At all. Technically, it’s still Noelle. There hasn’t been a Reichard in his family at any point Combeferre can remember.

It’s a blatant jab straight at Combeferre, _mocking_ him, tossing his name onto a burnable bank account as if this Reichard man is laughing in his face, watching as Combeferre fails to catch up. He’s just running in the grooves Reichard had already set up for him, isn’t he?

And fuck, Combeferre is _furious_.

“Why yes, I would like his address,” Combeferre says smoothly, gripping the edge of his desk with a grip so tight he can practically hear his knuckles doing the screaming he can’t. “I’d like every single thing you have about him emailed to me, actually. As soon as possible.”

“Oh wow, so you know this guy?” the man says.

Combeferre is going to end up killing someone.

He really really hopes that someone is Reichard.

“I think this man might be the cause of everything I’m investigating right now,” Combeferre says. “And I want to take him down as fast and ruthlessly as possible.” 

And then strangle him. When he kills Reichard, strangulation is definitely the way to go. He’s never been a fan of up-close murder, instead electing for hands-off and generally unobtrusive methods – poison and other chemicals being preferred. But for Reichard, he will very happily make an exception.

“God, how much money did this guy cost you?” the man asks, somehow not even a little bit suspicious. Combeferre almost feels as if he should warn the bank. He sends the information via email without even questioning the fact his email address is _combe@abc.com_.

Reichard has cost him far more than Combeferre is willing to admit, and no little bit of it is his pride.

He’s as polite as he can manage when he hangs up on the man, already knowing what he’s going to see when the email comes. _Reichard Combeferre_ , it says, over and over. The home address is Combeferre’s. The work address is the Musain. The birthdate is Combeferre’s.

The phone number isn’t.

His phone rings, and for a sharp moment he thinks _it’s Reichard_ , wants it to the point he grits his teeth and doesn’t even look at the phone’s screen when he answers. “Hello?”

“Oh thank god, Combeferre, everything’s gone to shit,” Courfeyrac says, exhaling the words in one long breath like it’s the first bit of relief he’s had. “I can’t find Enjolras, he doesn’t have his phone, and when I went up to the apartment it looks like he broke everything in it but he couldn't get into the armory, thank god. I think. But his laptop’s gone-”

“We’ll find him, don’t worry. I’ll get my network on it,” Combeferre says, and begins to do so. It’ll take little more than a post onto a very secure board he’s been maintaining for a select group of individuals, _just in case_. “I’m tracking down the man who did this.”

“Can’t that wait?” Courfeyrac asks, a hint of desperation in his voice. “We’ve said Enjolras is on bereavement leave from the National Assembly, but we need someone back in there for the vote on-”

“You can do it,” Combeferre says, already mid-post to the ‘Information Alliance’ of ABC supporters spread across the world. “Or have someone else do it. Jehan would be good. Delegate.”

Courfeyrac is quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Combeferre says. “I just have to do this, and do it as quickly as possible. There’s so much we don’t know about what this man is capable of, and if today has been any indication, it could get very bad.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Courfeyrac asks. “Enjolras is missing, Grantaire is missing, their home is _destroyed_ , it looks like Enjolras turned into a tornado inside and ran off, and I have no idea what to do here. I’m the glorified human resources department and we all know it.”

 _That_ gets Combeferre’s gaze away from the phone number he’s still glaring at on his computer screen. “You don’t really believe that,” Combeferre says.

“What I believe doesn’t matter right now, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says. It’s not exactly a smooth evasion of the topic, but Combeferre lets it slide. Courfeyrac is wholly devoted to taking care of his friends, and wants to take care of the rest of the world in the process. Sometimes, taking care of _himself_ is a very different matter. “I just – I need you here. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

“Okay,” Combeferre says quietly. He _needs_ to get Reichard, but if Courfeyrac’s at the point of begging, there’s no contest in his priorities. Not really.

“Okay?” Courfeyrac echoes, an unmistakable tang of hope to his words. “Does that mean you’re coming over?”

Combeferre slowly sets his forehead on desk, and sighs. He reminds himself that this is the right thing to do. Probably. As much as it hurts to admit, whatever Reichard’s next move is, it’s extremely unlikely Combeferre would catch it in time no matter what he did.

“I’ll be right there,” Combeferre says.

“Thank you, I love you, never forget I love you, please be here soon, I will buy you so much chocolate. I have to go but _thank you_ , Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, and hangs up.

Combeferre controls his breathing, keeps it tight and even for one, ten, twenty breaths. He takes a moment to grab a piece of paper and write down the phone number, slashing _Reichard_ onto it before walking out onto the streets of Paris, headed for where he’s really needed.

\---

Getting around Paris is easy for Enjolras. Getting _through_ Paris is more difficult, ever since he became some sort of celebrity. It usually works to his advantage, which he hates, but is willing to take advantage of the perks of being famous when necessity calls for it. It usually makes more of a mess than it would otherwise, but right now, he’s fine with making a mess.

“My ticket had an accident,” Enjolras says to the woman at the counter, who is staring at the blood-soaked ticket with wide eyes. And then staring at Enjolras with wide eyes, which then go back to the ticket. “The second ticket is even worse off, so I didn’t bring it with me. Would you reprint them for me? And quickly, please, since the train leaves in twelve minutes.”

“Where’s Grantaire?” the woman asks, frowning at Montparnasse. She takes the ticket from Enjolras with a delicate two-fingered grip, typing quickly.

“I’m meeting him in Lyon,” Enjolras says, which is hopefully the truth.

The woman nods, and turns back with a smile as the printer taps out two new tickets for him. It’s astonishing what a reputation for justified violence can excuse, if she isn’t even questioning why exactly Enjolras is holding a ticket so bloody it won’t work in the train entry. “I saw his show, it was amazing, I really hope-”

“I’ll tell him, thank you,” Enjolras says, and plucks the tickets from her fingers before striding towards the trains, handing one of the tickets to Montparnasse.

“Do people always do that?” Montparnasse asks. “They just do what you say?”

“Usually, yes,” Enjolras says, and ignores the way Montparnasse scoffs in favor of putting his ticket into the barrier and trying to slide through while carrying two ridiculous bags. This is why he and Grantaire travel _light_ , one bag each, easily transportable and no eyebrows raised at the full designer set of bags with fancy designer labels on them. 

He glances up at Gare de Lyon’s large clock set just beneath the high opaque ceiling that’s letting enough light in to make the glazed paint on their train seem extra shiny. They have six minutes to get into their seats, and Enjolras doesn’t doubt for a moment that all of the space for bags will be completely full, and Enjolras is just going to make Montparnasse carry his own bags in his fucking lap.

More importantly, he’s worried that if Montparnasse’s ticket went through without any problems, the second man might not be on the train. For all he knows, there might never have been an accomplice, but it makes _sense_. Two is a much better number than one when it comes to crime. Two means a second set of eyes, a second pair of hands, a second heartbeat near your own, it means a _partner_.

And all he has is fucking _Montparnasse_ , who slides along behind him wearing sunglasses when he’s indoors and a scarf when it’s so hot inside of the train station that Enjolras is tempted to strip out of his red coat. His shoes click on the concrete, and when Enjolras turns to frown at him, Montparnasse just grins obnoxiously at him.

He is really, really going to end up murdering Montparnasse.

When he opens the door to their train car, it’s unsettling how many seats are empty. Enjolras usually gets a compartment on trains, usually has a small room that’s for just him and Grantaire, but this is general seating and tight and uncomfortable and thank god it’s at least on the _ground_. Enjolras refuses to try and stow Montparnasse’s bags, dropping them in the aisle, and wishes he was surprised when he sees that there’s nobody in either of the reserved seats.

“Hey, we were going to Lyon anyway,” Montparnasse says from where he’s actually managed to shove his things into the rack, nice and neat and patting the top suitcase affectionately before heading towards Enjolras. “Look on the bright side, huh? You didn’t spend money on tickets.”

“Because I don’t have any of that at all,” Enjolras says, and waits for Montparnasse to figure out that he’s getting the window seat. It doesn’t take too long, and Montparnasse doesn’t make the expected criticisms, just simply sliding in, Enjolras taking his seat immediately since the train is about to start moving. 

He knows he’ll be perfectly fine the minute it _is_ moving, knows it’s just that he’s out of practice when it comes to travel, particularly in coach class, because it’s like being on an airplane, but safe. And not at all an airplane.

His hand twitches on the armrest and fuck, he misses Grantaire.

“You should calm down,” Montparnasse says.

“Well you should _shut up_ ,” Enjolras says.

“Oh damn,” Montparnasse says. “Sick burn. I’ll feel that one for like a month.”

Enjolras turns to glare at him. “Listen to me.”

“’Kay,” Montparnasse says.

It takes Enjolras a moment to remember why killing Montparnasse is a bad idea. He creates a reminder in his mind, an unalterable fact for himself: _if he has Montparnasse now, then he has Grantaire later_. Montparnasse gets to kill Reichard, Enjolras gets to have Grantaire safe and home and with him again, they separate and Enjolras never has to deal with him ever again. That’s all. Montparnasse is a means to an end, like a really irritating taxi driver.

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “You get me to Grantaire, and-”

“Whoa, that wasn’t the deal,” Montparnasse says, eyes widening behind his sunglasses.

“What?” Enjolras asks. “That was definitely the deal. You get Reichard, I get my husband, we never have to see each other ever again.”

“That was _really_ not the deal,” Montparnasse says, and rips his sunglasses off of his face so he can glare at Enjolras. “Like, _at all_. You said to get you to fucking Reichard, not-”

The train starts moving, and Enjolras can’t help the sudden tight grip he has on the armrests of what is definitely a chair on a train.

“Fuck, just _calm down_ , what is wrong with you,” Montparnasse snaps. “The deal’s that I tell you everything I know about Reichard, including location, whenever you ask, and in return you get me in a room with him and pay my way there. Where the _fuck_ is your shadow in that deal? Answer, _nowhere_. If you-”

“You didn’t specify we go straight to Reichard. You didn’t give a time limit. You didn’t say we _only_ hunt Reichard down,” Enjolras says.

Montparnasse’s glare evaporates, turns into a cold hard look that makes something go very still inside of Enjolras. “That’s some bad fucking faith you’re dealing in.”

Enjolras remembers Gavroche’s hand-tipping once again, mentally curses himself for a fool for never even wondering to ask for a little bit of clarification. Enjolras has been a fool in so many ways, and he’s only starting to realize that. It’s barely noon and he feels like it’s been a thousand years since he last saw Grantaire and he _needs him back_ and his best chance at finding him is being impossibly difficult over a fucking technicality.

“Either way, both of our goals are going to be achieved,” Enjolras says. “You get Reichard, I get Grantaire, and we part ways. It might not be the letter of the law, but it’s close enough.”

Montparnasse reaches into the pocket of his ridiculous jacket and Enjolras has no idea what he’s going to pull out, tenses just in case Montparnasse has really gone murderous over this ridiculous blip in their agreement. But when Montparnasse’s hand emerges, he’s holding a piece of gum. He unwraps it efficiently and pops it into his mouth and oh god Enjolras knows it’s coming, but there it is. Montparnasse chews gum like an asshole, loud and smacking and makes a point of blowing a bubble.

“Jesus Christ, how old are you?” Enjolras snaps.

“What’s it to you?” Montparnasse asks.

Enjolras glares at him. “If you-” he begins, but his phone starts ringing, fuck. Enjolras starts patting himself down, trying to find it, and answers with a terse, “Hello?”

There’s nothing but a sharp breath on the other end of the line, something between surprise and pain, and Enjolras knows, he knows _immediately_ , finds himself standing up and walking down the aisle for no real reason. “Grantaire,” Enjolras says, gripping the top of one of the many empty chairs tight enough that it hurts. “ _Grantaire_ , I know it’s you, just-”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, and he sounds broken and exhausted and Enjolras wants nothing so much as he wants to fix whatever’s wrong. “He didn’t say it’d be you.”

Grantaire doesn’t give him time. Enjolras swallows, says, “Please-”

“Don’t follow me,” Grantaire says, fast in the way he always speaks when he says something he thinks Enjolras won’t like. There’s a choked off word, a harsh breath, and Grantaire hangs up.

Enjolras just stands there, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

He should know what to do. He usually knows what to do. He has no plan and no weapons and no nothing and no _Grantaire_ , they haven’t been separated for this long in two years and it feels like nothing is right, nothing at all. But he needs _control_ , because Grantaire needs him to have control. He needs to think. Enjolras needs to sit and think.

The train has been moving smoothly for long enough that Enjolras is just fine, but it doesn’t explain why he finds himself sitting on the floor in the middle of the aisle, feeling very composed as he looks at the _call ended_ still displayed on his phone.

He sits, and thinks, and has absolutely nothing.

“You’ve been sitting there for ten minutes,” Montparnasse says. “Maybe stretch or something.”

Well, Enjolras amends dismally, he does have Montparnasse.

He stands up, sits in an unoccupied seat on the other side of the aisle from Montparnasse, and fails to think of anything but the way Grantaire had sounded on the phone, like he was being swept out by the tide.

Enjolras needs a plan, but he doesn’t even have his mind anymore.

\---

Enjolras doesn’t remember things like Grantaire does, doesn’t have that snap-trap marvel of a mind that catches on things and discards them just as easily. He remembers the memorable. He recalls the things that have made an impact, the things that he couldn’t forget even if he wanted to.

Grantaire is a slow inescapable concept in his mind, something that feels like the core of his heart, the gravity of his body. He can be and do and feel whatever he wants, as long as he still touches the ground. As long as he has Grantaire.

When they met, everything had gone wrong. Enjolras had fucked up his mission to remove the disgustingly amoral threat that was Jean-Auguste Loudin, fucked it up so thoroughly that he’d ended up handcuffed by lackeys and tossed into a bedroom, and seen him. In a time where his mind was nothing but warning bells and his own failure and resignation at the fact he was probably about to die, he took one look at Grantaire and he’d dropped every other thought. He saw Grantaire and thought, _there he is_. 

His heart clamped onto Grantaire, told him he was special (and perfect) while Enjolras’ mind _screamed_ how bad of an idea this was, pointed out the impossible painting of Enjolras when they’d never even met before, replayed the way Grantaire had casually slit a man’s throat and pointed a bloody knife at Enjolras and said, “I’m going to paint you.” How he hadn’t been phased by learning who Enjolras is. How he’d stumbled across the floor with an unearthly grace, how he steps toe-heel on old hardwood floors, how he speaks loudly and his footsteps are silent. How he’d immediately sided with Enjolras instead of the man he’d been living with long enough that the reports they’d gathered had listed them as _partners_ , how Enjolras had completely disregarded whoever the significant other was while planning, only to have his entire fucking life _defined_ by him.

He remembers how it happened so, so vividly. Grantaire sat in a chair by the window, sunlight gilding his dark hair with bronze, blue eyes glazed and terrifyingly chemically bright. He deftly lit a cigarette while keeping a bloody knife held comfortably in the same hand as the lighter. He was impossible, tipping slightly in the chair, completely distracting when Enjolras tried to speak with Loudin, explained why he needed to be _stopped_. Enjolras knows neither of their minds were on the discussion. They were watching Grantaire, beautiful and insane and covered in paint and blood and casually smoking and staring with the same blue eyes that were always intoxicatingly intelligent, regardless of anything else he mixed into them.

“Come on, Apollo,” Grantaire had said. It’s always stuck in Enjolras’ mind, the way his lips had wrapped around the words, the way his tongue coaxed every syllable out, smooth and certain. “Come on, Apollo, get the job done and let’s go.”

Enjolras did.

And somehow, _somehow_ , Grantaire had followed him back to the Musain, tilting and smoking and impossibly elegant in all the wrong ways, talking complete nonsense. Enjolras still doesn’t know the entire list of what Grantaire had in his system that day, honestly doesn't _want_ to know, but he knows Grantaire had stared at him and watched him and would occasionally speak.

“Your left earlobe is just a little bigger than the right one,” Grantaire had said. They were riding the metro, and Enjolras didn't know better and couldn’t _think_ and was torn between pulling Grantaire close and shoving him far away and running away as fast as he could. He wrapped an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, because he’d not realized that Grantaire only really falls down when he feels like he’s dying, and it was an excuse. Grantaire had leaned against his chest, shamelessly curling into him as best he could while they were standing in a tightly packed train.

Grantaire didn't fall, but it was a close thing.

If things had gone differently, if Enjolras had never brought Grantaire home, or if Enjolras hadn’t had the horrifying realization that when Grantaire was close enough to touch he could barely think about anything else, could barely _care_ about anything else, who knows what could’ve happened.

He knows Grantaire doesn’t remember it, so far gone at that point that mania shone through his eerily small pupils, and he’d held onto Enjolras’ shirt like he’d never felt cotton before, but Enjolras had helped him get home for the first time. He’d held him close on the train, guided him through streets with an arm around his shoulders, and Grantaire had laughed and nothing and murmured happily at every single touch and the moment he walked into the Musain, Combeferre knew. And Enjolras knew, too. If he went down this path with Grantaire, it would take him down a very, very different road than the one he'd always fought for.

Enjolras had put him on his couch and watched Grantaire fall asleep. He heard him vomit into the kitchen sink in the morning. He made Grantaire coffee, and had no idea how he took it, had no cream in the kitchen. Grantaire had smiled at him like he was an angel with bloodshot eyes, wrapped his hands around the plain black ceramic and said, “You’re my hero.”

Enjolras had shut it down at that exact moment, shut _everything_ down. He tried to stop feeling, tried to stop watching Grantaire’s hands tap ash from his cigarette and measure canvas with a twist of thumb-to-pinkie and tried to ignore his laugh, how he desperately needed a haircut but Enjolras never had the heart to tell him because of the way it curled damp and hot against his neck when he sweated, the way his lips pressed around his cigarettes, the way his eyes followed Enjolras when he thought Enjolras wasn’t watching. The ways Grantaire smiled bitterly when he thought Enjolras wasn’t watching. The way he tried to kill himself a little more every single day.

Grantaire was the enemy, Grantaire was the greatest threat to Enjolras’ dedication to the cause that he’d ever faced in his entire life. Grantaire was the encyclopedia entry under _bad idea_. Grantaire made him laugh and made him shout and made him notice the world outside of work and missions and the cause he lived for. He could look, but never touch, and he tried to not even look, and Grantaire returned the favor.

The right choice would’ve been to go, and _stay_ gone, when Grantaire finally got his paintings in Tripoli. It was the excuse that Enjolras had clung to, the one excuse for why he didn’t tell Grantaire to fuck off, the lie he told himself at night when he found himself walking into Grantaire’s hotel room and watching himself twist in his sleep and the too-bright moonlight turning him to silver and it was _wrong_ , it was so fucked up. People didn’t feel like this.

Grantaire painted Enjolras like his image was killing him with every brush stroke, and Enjolras had watched with horrified eyes for hours, tried to speak with him, tried to at least get him to take a moment to hydrate.

And then his mind had said, _this is your chance_.

Enjolras is a fool in many ways, absurdly stupid in others, but Enjolras knew that it was the smart decision. Grantaire could take care of himself, that was a definite sign that Enjolras had read loud and clear since the moment they met.

He left for a few minutes, and when he returned, Grantaire was still painting. He left for an hour, and Grantaire kept painting. He left for five hours, managed to do their ( _his_ ) job alone for the first time since they’d met, and when he returned, Grantaire was still staring at a canvas.

It was easy to pack up, easy to just set the water bottle on the table and say goodbye when he knew Grantaire wouldn’t really hear him, only stood back from his easel to look at the canvas so intently it was terrifying and said, “Okay.”

He started walking. He knew the smart thing would be to catch the first boat headed back to France and try to forget Grantaire even existed, and he meant to. He really did. He made it to the dock and bought a ticket, and then had waited. And then he thought of Grantaire, how he argued with Enjolras for nothing but the sake of arguing, how he was _infuriating_ , how he was an alcoholic and a drug addict and an _asshole_. And he waited. And he remembered the tiniest of moments, remembered Grantaire riding a horse like he was born to it and cursing completely furious filth at Enjolras for twenty miles of riding, remembered Grantaire winking at him before opening a quickly-picked lock, remembered Grantaire stepping out of the shower and looking at him and whispering _oh shit_ and running into his own room.

Enjolras waited until the boat arrived, and he barely knew what he was doing when he stood up and started walking back. He’d turned back towards the hotel, towards Grantaire, and with every step his mind said _this is the wrong choice_ , but his heart and body and everything else inside of him was unfaltering, perfectly certain that no, it’s not the wrong choice. It’s the _unwise_ choice, but the smart choice and the _right_ choice aren’t always the same. When it comes to Grantaire, it seems like they’re _never_ the same.

Really, Enjolras had reasoned, it was likely Grantaire would even notice he’d left. Everything could just continue on, as if nothing ever happened. It’d be one single private mark of shame for Enjolras and that’s as far as it would ever go.

And then he’d opened the door.

The first thing he saw was the empty easel tossed onto the floor, the paintings lined up against one wall. His eyes had traveled up to rest, confused, on the knife in the wall, and Enjolras knew that something had gone wrong.

Two curious steps through the door, and Enjolras dropped his bags back on the mussed bed. He watched the duffle bag bounce on the mattress, and his eyes had slid to between their two beds, seen the bottles everywhere, seen the bag that Grantaire had oh so politely been tossing empties into, seen the fact that Grantaire wasn’t moving and his eyes were open and he was slumped on the floor staring at the paintings and Enjolras dove for the floor, for _Grantaire_. He stumbled on a bottle, but he was on his way down anyway, falling to his knees in front of Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said at first, shaking him by the shoulder, but Grantaire didn’t move, Grantaire didn’t respond at all. Grantaire's skin was so cold, almost blue, and Grantaire was barely breathing. Enjolras had pulled Grantaire into a sitting position, barely noticing the vomit on the floor beneath them, pushing Grantaire’s chest hard against the wall and feeling something tighten inside of himself when there was no puff of air from the impact. “Wake up, Grantaire, I need you to wake up. Come on, Grantaire, wake up. I mean it. Shit. _Shit_. Just _breathe_ , for fuck’s sake, I know you can do that for me.”

Grantaire didn’t respond, and Enjolras checked his pulse but couldn't even count because it was so weak and so slow and Enjolras could barely think over his own racing heartbeat. He didn’t even think, just grabbed Grantaire and tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold and barely avoided tripping on the same fucking bottle as he ran out of the door. It was faster to take the elevator, and Enjolras had set him against the wall of the elevator for the precious moments between the fifth floor and the street level and fuck, _fuck_ , wasn’t alcohol _illegal_ here? Not that it would stop Grantaire, ever-resourceful and infuriatingly intelligent and using it for all the wrong reasons.

“Don’t you dare die,” Enjolras told him, because he knew Grantaire could hear him. He grabbed Grantaire by the chin and kept him pressed hard against the side of the elevator and said, “Don’t you _dare_ , Grantaire, I came back for you, I _chose_ , you don’t get to leave me now.”

He kept talking, talked after he tossed Grantaire over his shoulder once again and somehow managed to hail a taxi while running towards the hospital as quickly as he could with a (please god no _please_ ) limp body in tow. It only took one look into the driver’s eyes for him to break every traffic law there was in Tripoli and get them to the hospital, and he didn’t even object when Enjolras didn’t stop to pay him first. The car had barely stopped and Enjolras kicked the door open, hoisting Grantaire in his arms and rushing through the door and thank _fuck_ , there was a gurney already waiting because the driver had been on the phone or the radio or _something_ , and they’d wheeled Grantaire away, and held Enjolras back.

“No, I’m supposed to be with him,” Enjolras said, trying to push past the very large man in blue scrubs who was holding him by the shoulders. “Get out of my way, I’m supposed to _be with him_ , don’t you fucking-”

“Calm down, sir,” a nurse said, and Enjolras twisted to look her in the eye, _daring_ her to say that again. He would’ve punched her in the face, would’ve grabbed her by the throat and shook her so hard her fucking earrings popped off, but the taxi driver was there holding him back too. And right, right. That was only fair. Enjolras stepped away and forced his shaking hands to open his wallet and paid him far more than the fare, and watched him leave.

“You’ll be able to visit him later, sir,” the nurse said firmly.

Enjolras looked back, desperate. “But-”

“You can’t get in right now, sir,” the nurse said. “They’re working on him. We’ll tell you when he can have visitors.”

They escorted him to an ugly bench seat, sat him down as if he was the scared shaking mess he pretended not to be, because maybe if he pretended he had some sort of control over this, the (pathetic, obvious, useless) lie might become the truth.

He sat there for a long time, waiting to know how badly he fucked up. 

Ever since he first met Grantaire, there had been a thought associated with him, something that ran along the lines of _he can take care of himself_. Now, it amended to _he can take care of himself, but won’t._ Enjolras desperately wanted to avoid admitting what Grantaire did, wanted to hide from the fact Grantaire was so upset that he tried to _kill himself_ , and Enjolras had to bend at the waist, had to put his head between his knees and breathe, possibly breathe for the both of them.

He remained bowed over the linoleum floor for a long, long time, before a nurse approached with a pen and clipboard full of paperwork that Enjolras had no idea how to fill out. But she’d delivered it with the sentence, “You can go back now,” and in that moment Enjolras could’ve kissed her.

“I’ll fill it out while I wait for him to wake up,” Enjolras had said, knowing full well that he didn’t have an eighth of the information required for the forms. It satisfied her, thank god, and she led him deeper into the hospital.

Enjolras took one step into the room and had to hold on to the doorframe because Grantaire’s chest moved, Grantaire exhaled, Grantaire survived.

“Visiting hours start at nine in the morning,” the nurse had said, and it was the very first time Enjolras realized time had passed. When they had entered the hospital, there was sunlight. Now, the clock read two hours past midnight. He’d spent a minimum of four hours just staring at the floor. “Are you emergency contact?”

Enjolras had no answer.

“Do you have his date of birth?” the nurse asked.

Enjolras didn’t know his age, didn’t know the day he was born, didn’t know anything useful. Didn’t even know his blood type. The only things he could possibly provide were the way he laughs or his shoe size or the fact he hates peas with an awe-inspiring passion for absolutely no reason. He’s allergic to walnuts and loves art in a way Enjolras can’t even begin to understand. He’s quite possibly almost as smart as Combeferre.

“Do you even have a _name_?” the nurse demanded.

He didn’t even know if Grantaire was his real name.

What compassion there was in the nurse’s countenance had vanished, replaced with exasperation and maybe a hint of disappointment. “I thought – never mind. We’re keeping him overnight for observation, he’ll need to stay hydrated and we have him on oxygen. He’ll be released in the morning.”

“How hydrated does he need to be?” Enjolras asked. “Does he need to be on bed rest? Are you sure he’s okay to be released tomorrow? Will he still be on oxygen when we leave the hospital? Does he need a wheelchair? Where’s the doctor, I-”

“Calm down,” the nurse said, but there was less hostility in her voice now. Less hostility, and even more exasperation. “A nurse will be in to check on him soon enough. And if you know what happened to him, for god’s sake, don’t let it happen again.”

She left, and Enjolras found himself alone with Grantaire and a clipboard of nothing but proof of how very little he actually knew about his partner. He tried to fill it in, but his eyes were blurry and his grip on the pen wasn’t nearly steady enough and he didn’t know a single fucking thing about Grantaire’s family’s medical history, didn’t know so many things, beyond what they did and how he _lives_ , except when he tries to stop living. Except when he tried to fucking kill himself over what, some paintings? Over _Enjolras_?

He tossed the clipboard to the side, sat down in the thinly-padded chair, and tried to find some form of control over how fucking _furious_ he suddenly was, so angry he could taste it, sharp and bitter on the roof of his mouth. Enjolras had made his choice and he’d walked back in and Grantaire had tried to fucking kill himself, and he heard monitors start beeping, turned to see Grantaire’s beautiful blue eyes weakly blink awake, _alive_ , and the next thing he knew he was grabbing onto Grantaire’s shirt and _screaming at him_ because how the fuck could he do this, how _dare_ he do this, and nurses rushed in to physically drag him away and told him one more time, “Visiting hours start at nine, _sir_.”

Enjolras had practically been kicked out of the hospital, and it was a good a time as any to go back to the hotel. He shipped the fucking paintings, he packed their bags full of the things he’d stupidly, stupidly separated out for Grantaire, checked out, and for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to tell Combeferre when he called. Combeferre had to know what happened anyway, because he always knows.

But Enjolras’ mind had caught on getting tossed out of the hospital, and held back time and time again, how they said _sir_ and called him a _visitor_ and the relief he’d felt just seeing Grantaire _breathing_.

They had a job in Copenhagen already lined up, but it could be fast. It could be careful, it could be nothing but a slow journey and a quick kill and keeping Grantaire hydrated and warm and safe and as sober as he could before heading back to Paris.

He took Grantaire to Copenhagen, watched him sleep and made sure he ate and forced as much water into him as he could, and started working on paperwork to make sure he was never _ever_ kept out of hospitals ever again.

If Enjolras could, he would burn Tripoli to the ground. He would hunt down whoever Grantaire bought alcohol from and make them suffer. He would curl around Grantaire and keep on pretending that it never happened, that he doesn’t have nightmares of getting on that boat or choosing to go back too late or not getting to the hospital in time. 

In the night, he holds Grantaire close and feels his pulse beneath his lips and hears him breathe in and out and in and swears over and over again that he’ll never let it happen again.

Never.


	3. Musain - Jardin des Halles | Lyon

The chaos that greets Combeferre is the overpowering variety that leaves people quiet, subdued, and feeling helpless. They’re all going about their business, but there’s a stunned efficiency. They look like lost people fighting ineffectively to find their way to safety.

Combeferre will fix this.

“Where are we?” he says the moment he’s stepped onto the floor. Heads twist to look at him, but Combeferre’s attention is caught on how Courfeyrac rushes forward and grabs him in a bone-crushing hug.

“Oh thank god, never leave me,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre pats him on the back until Courfeyrac releases him. “Leclaire’s making a move and the press is going crazy, they’re talking about putting together a candle-light vigil or something and I can’t even begin to know how to deal with that.”

“You could’ve handled it,” Combeferre says. He only catches Courfeyrac’s flinch because he’s waiting for it. Combeferre is going to find whatever planted this self-doubt in Courfeyrac, and then Combeferre is going to cut out with a very sharp scalpel. “We can ignore the press for now, they’d spread misinformation no matter what happened. What exactly is Leclaire trying to do?”

“Objecting to the idea that bereavement leave means we can have a temporary replacement for Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, and scowls.

“The public won’t like that,” Combeferre comments.

“Leclaire’s afraid of Enjolras, not the public. And ABC’s good will might not extend this far. We’re questionable at least with this replacement thing,” Bossuet says, squeezing into the conversation as he dodges Joly, who is running between tables doing…something. Combeferre will deal with that if it needs to be dealt with. “Any chance of bringing Enjolras back?”

Enjolras is chasing down Grantaire. Or that’s the theory Combeferre is operating on, at least. He knew Enjolras’ priorities would change as soon as he finally stopped fighting his heart. It’s been good for him, but it was good for him when they were all senselessly happy and unsuspecting. Now, it isn’t. Being in love isn’t something Combeferre can blame him for, but they’re going to have to have a discussion about responsibility whenever he next sees Enjolras (and Grantaire).

“He’s MIA,” Courfeyrac says, turning to look directly at Bossuet. “And god, how did I miss this? _You_ should be our replacement.”

Bossuet looks terrified.

Combeferre nods. Aside from Enjolras and Combeferre, who is the usual stand-in, Bossuet has the most experience with the actual mechanics of the National Assembly, considering his father was Senator Lesgles. However, Combeferre considers, experience and understanding something doesn’t always make you the best at it. Courfeyrac knows _people_ the best of all of them, though, so it’s likely that Combeferre is simply missing something.

Bossuet glances between them. “We thought Combeferre-”

“I’m busy,” Combeferre says, and just the _idea_ of Reichard has him grinding his teeth. Courfeyrac can figure out who to send on his own. Combeferre doesn’t have to be involved in this particular problem. “Leclaire wants to take advantage of Enjolras’ absence and start passing legislation that he’d watch be ripped to shreds otherwise, is that accurate?”

“Pretty much,” Courfeyrac says. “We’re busy trying to figure out what exactly he’s going to be angling for, who he’s going to recruit, how quickly he has to be moving through this to really make the most of this. According to some source of Jehan’s, Leclaire’s already trying to bring something to the floor.”

It’s a mind-boggling display of frantic writing and desperately trying to use this opening. “It’ll probably be so full of holes that we don’t have to worry about it for now,” Combeferre says, because this has to be about priorities right now.

Really, from what Combeferre is seeing, he’s just here to make Courfeyrac feel like he’s not the one taking care of everything. He wants to pull Courfeyrac aside and speak quietly, say soft strong things, surgically extract whatever’s brought this on. Instead, he’s going to give his friends a plan of attack and then go on the offensive against the man behind the curtain.

“What else?” Combeferre asks the room in general.

It’s Joly who speaks up, sounding more irritated than harried when he says, “International branches are going crazy, half of the country is in denial about Grantaire dying-”

“And right to be,” Bahorel points out.

“- the other half of the country that’s heard the news is planning a candlelight vigil, location to be determined. Almost all North American branches are convinced Grantaire was murdered, we’ve had over forty calls about interviews and they’re asking for a press conference, they’re asking for _Enjolras_ , and the insurance company is getting incredibly pissed off,” Joly finishes.

“Let the public do what they want, and tell all the branch leads that he isn’t actually dead,” Combeferre says, and turns back to Courfeyrac. “Listen to me. All you have to do is pick who goes in Enjolras’ place, and keep him there. Leave the press alone, say we’re _all_ in mourning if you need to. We aren’t ready to talk. If you hear from Enjolras, don’t tell him to come back, there'd be no point. Just tell him to be _reasonable_ and not kill anyone. If you hear from Grantaire, do tell him to come back because only God knows what Enjolras is going to do.”

“It might be too late on the not having Enjolras kill anyone thing,” Jehan says, pointing at his laptop’s screen, as if Combeferre can see what’s on it from the other side of the room. “Someone posted that they saw him and another man who is, I quote, _hotter than every sin in hell oh my fucking god_. So either he’s been abducted by a supermodel or he has family tagging along, maybe?”

“The model abduction is more likely,” Bahorel says, which is true. 

Combeferre knows Enjolras barely avoided being committed by his parents when they were younger. Enjolras doesn’t know, but Combeferre does. He’s in the business of knowing things. Enjolras might have some bizarre attachment to his biological donors, but it isn’t reciprocal. They think Enjolras is insane. Combeferre thinks they should be in jail, if not graves.

Still, supermodel doesn’t exactly ring true, to say the least. “Have you asked Gavroche or Eponine who he is?”

“Eponine’s out hunting down information on the cause of the fire and who has equipment to start one like that, and who knows where Gavroche is?” Feuilly says.

“If he comes around, be sure to ask him, then,” Combeferre says. Gavroche is unpredictable, to say the least. The idea of one of them actually managing to hunt down Gavroche when he doesn’t want to be found is laughable. He turns and claps a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, leaning in and smiling at his friend. “Just keep Enjolras’ seat occupied, and everything will be fine.”

“And if it isn’t?” Courfeyrac asks quietly, carefully grabbing the zipper of Combeferre’s coat. “I’m not the – you’ll be around just in case, right?”

“You’re not going to have any problems,” Combeferre says firmly.

“Sure,” Courfeyrac says, which means nothing, but he smiles and knocks two knuckles into the base of Combeferre’s jaw. After however many years spent together, he doesn’t even have to say it. Combeferre can hear the _chin up, Combeferre_ without Courfeyrac making a sound. “Anything we can do to help your quest?”

“Probably not,” Combeferre says, the paper in his pocket suddenly burning in his mind. “But if you come across any mentions of the name Reichard, tell me.”

Courfeyrac nods, oddly pensive for a moment before smiling. “We’ll keep our eyes open,” he says. “Whoever Reichard is, they don’t stand a chance against you. I’ve seen you in this mood before. You’re kind of ruthless when you’re angry, it’s sort of terrifying.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre says, since it’s a compliment, and doesn’t say goodbye. They don’t expect him to. Combeferre does a quick glance around the room, and it’s ridiculous, but his friends really do look more under control now. They just needed Combeferre to tell them what they already knew.

Walking out of the Musain is strange, simply because the regular clientele seem torn between condolences and pressing him for information. They all know something’s off, because it’s more than a little bit obvious when a close-knit group of people loses a very close friend. And yet, they respect Combeferre’s space. They respect ABC’s space, because they respect ABC.

He means to go back to his own apartment. He means to find somewhere quiet and controlled for whatever happens when he calls the number he hunted down.

Instead of doing that, Combeferre finds himself sitting on a park bench beneath the still-clinging autumn leaves of an old tree. The autumn air is just crisp enough that it’s not perfectly comfortable to sit outside, but it’s not truly cold. It will be soon, but not yet. Not quite.

Combeferre dials.

It rings.

He doesn’t know what he expected, doesn’t know why it’s so surprising when after two rings someone picks up and says, “Hello?” It’s the casual greeting anyone would give, nothing evil or sinister in the words, and for some reason Combeferre thinks, _this isn’t right_. He’s stuck thinking about it for long enough that the man on the other end repeats, “Hello?”

“Am I speaking to Reichard?” Combeferre asks.

“Ahh, if it isn’t Combeferre!” the man says immediately, and he sounds _delighted_ , and this isn’t right. This isn’t right at all. “I see you followed the money. It’s a solid technique, very reliable. Well done on how long it took, too. Very impressive.”

Combeferre feels completely lost. “Who are you?”

“You may call me Reichard,” he says. “I have a lot of respect for you, Combeferre. I’ve been tracking your work for some time now. I can see myself in you, give or take a few morals.”

“What do you want?” Combeferre asks.

“Oh, nothing but a chat with you,” Reichard says dismissively. “And to tell you to not blame yourself. I know that can be crippling, and I want to see where you go. I’m not lying when I say you have a lot of talent.”

“Not blame myself for what?” Combeferre asks.

“You should really participate in the conversation, you know,” Reichard says. “Give and take. Tell me how your day was, what the weather’s like in Paris, what you had for breakfast.”

“My day hasn’t been very good, because you faked the death of my friend Grantaire,” Combeferre says. “What are you planning?”

Reichard makes a _tssk_ noise, sounds disappointed when he says, “That was horribly done. Develop some subtlety. You have so much potential. I know you’re usually better than this, come on, _impress me_.”

Combeferre’s grip on his phone tightens, and he hates it, because Reichard is _right_. He’s usually much, much better at this. It’s the most ineffectual interrogation he’s ever done, and it burns inside of him that not only is he doing this poorly. Reichard not only noticed, but called him on it too. It’s rage and failure and humiliation and just one more reason he’s going to strangle Reichard to death.

“Well, you’ll have to impress me later,” Reichard says. “This number only works the once. You’ll have to find one of my other phones now.”

“What?!” Combeferre says, practically _shouts_ , getting surprised looks from the park’s other residents, both human and animal. “But-”

“Goodbye, Combeferre,” Reichard says, tone completely dismissive of every single thing Combeferre is, and hangs up.

Combeferre is left listening to dial tone, staring at nothing.

\---

When Enjolras was young, his parents thought there was something wrong with him. He lacked boundaries, they said, had a baseless rage in him, felt things too deeply. He talked back, or he defiantly spoke nothing but Russian. He didn’t get insulted by the right things, didn’t laugh at the right things, cared deeply about things he had no personal experience with and didn’t give a fuck about many of the things he did. There had to be _something_ wrong with him.

Apparently, this required speaking to the school psychologist.

Nobody else thought there was anything wrong with him, they just understood that Enjolras was _different_ , and there was nothing dangerous about it (yet).

Combeferre had been waiting his turn, sitting next to Enjolras and reading. He hadn’t seen what the book was at first, of course, but Combeferre had seen Enjolras’ book.

“Interesting choice of literature,” he said. Enjolras was holding his copy of _The New Liberalism_ , which he’d fought his way through a small dusty bookstore to find tucked in a box under a shelf. It wasn’t in very high demand in his absurdly rich area of Paris.

"Oh?" Enjolras asked, careful, ready for a fight or mockery or criticism, but he still smiled, small and hopeful.

Combeferre had smiled right back and held up _The Communist Manifesto_.

It wasn’t exactly a shocking choice of literature, plenty of people have read it, but Enjolras had still smiled, said, “Is this your first philosophy book?”

And Combeferre had turned it so Enjolras could see the mass of scrunched-together notes on every single page, blue ink and red ink and black ink, as if Combeferre had dissected every single word in it hundreds of times.

Which is pretty impressive when you’re thirteen years old.

One paragraph had no scribbles. It just had the word **NO** written over it.

“I need you to be my best friend,” Enjolras said immediately.

Combeferre looked stunned. “I – well. I think I’d like that,” he said. “I’m Combeferre. _Just_ Combeferre. I’m a boy.”

“Then I’m just Enjolras,” he said, and never used his first name again. Since it was only fair, he added, “I’m angry at the injustice in the world.”

Combeferre tilted his head to the side, a small smile on his lips. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Change it, obviously,” Enjolras said. It was the first time he’d ever said it aloud, the first time he’d really understood it was that simple.

He had focus. He had Combeferre. He had a _purpose_. He devoted his entire life to it.

Until Grantaire.

\---

Enjolras wakes up when the train starts to brake, eyes blinking open to see Lyon slowly engulf them. When he glances back to check that Montparnasse hasn’t run off, the other man waves at him, handheld game system chirping until he snaps it shut like a book. “Feel better?” he asks Enjolras.

“No,” Enjolras says, and rubs at his eyes, trying to clear what’s left of sleep and nightmares and memories out of his eyes. “Where do we go from here?”

“I’ve got a contact,” Montparnasse says, and slides everything back into one of the smaller rust-colored bags. “It's not Reichard or your boy, but it’s good enough, yeah?”

“It’ll do,” Enjolras says.

They’re off the train and into the city in no time at all, Enjolras still carrying two of Montparnasse’s stupid fucking bags and still tempted to just drop them and have Montparnasse deal with his own luggage. But they move faster this way, and Enjolras knows it, so he just follows Montparnasse through the tight streets and shop fronts held in beige or white or brown buildings. The nonconformity of the buildings is vaguely off-putting, the styles similar enough to look like the architects swapped notes but didn’t actually care to use them beyond a single glance at the blueprints.

It’s unsurprising that Montparnasse doesn’t have a phone number or name or anything beyond an address. His contact is probably more of a living breathing drop point, although what exactly Montparnasse was meant to drop, Enjolras has no idea. 

Maybe Reichard is a repeat client.

It makes sense, now that he's thinking of it. Montparnasse might be dedicated to a good solid contract when it comes to crime, might be mercenary to the core, but chasing Reichard all over Europe seems like an extreme action just to save his reputation. There has to be something else. He believes Montparnasse when it comes to his deal with Enjolras – Montparnasse has already proven himself dedicated to the letter of the law there, to be sure – but Reichard? There must be more to whatever Reichard didn’t give him, whatever outstanding part of the agreement there is.

He tails behind Montparnasse easily enough, through small twisting streets that intersect randomly. It’s an organic city, one tamed just enough that what nonsensical growth of turns and alleys it stretched over the terrain is allowed to survive. Their destination isn’t too far from the train station, or not as far as Enjolras had occasionally walked with Grantaire to find their hotel or a contact, at least.

“And your contact will be able to get us to Reichard?” Enjolras asks.

“And Reichard’ll get you to your boy,” Montparnasse says, his tone the long-suffering sound of a parent dealing with a child’s _are we there yet? Are we there yet?_ He turns to frown at Enjolras. “Don’t trust me? Fine. But at least trust me to do my fucking job, alright?”

They stop in front of a door with a keypad, which Montparnasse opens after a few swipes of his finger and a quick look at his phone. Enjolras wants to grab it from him and see what the fuck he’s looking at, maybe see the information, but it isn’t worth the risk. He doesn’t know what Montparnasse is capable of physically, let alone how well Enjolras could do in a fight right now. If today has taught him anything, it’s how painfully unprepared he is in the face of an actual conflict.

“Are we really taking the suitcases up to confront your contact?” Enjolras asks when they’re through the door, in a tight hallway that is practically nothing but a staircase, no stairwell involved. It’s not exactly a nice building, but then again, Enjolras considers as he looks at the clean tile work beneath their feet, it’s not the worst, either.

“And _you_ complain about _me_ ,” Montparnasse says, glaring at him. “You planning to start shooting the second you're through the door?”

Enjolras glares right back, but doesn’t reply, mostly because he doesn’t even have a gun to start shooting with even if he wanted to.

“Then yes, we’re taking the fucking suitcases,” Montparnasse says, and shakes his head. “Baby.”

“And you’re how old again, fifteen? Sixteen?” Enjolras bites out.

“You wish I was,” Montparnasse says, which doesn’t make much sense, and leads up the stairs to the third floor. Enjolras doesn’t have time to tell Montparnasse how ridiculous he is, as the other man stops in front of a door and drops his suitcases on the hardwood floor, bending over one and opening the zipper. When Enjolras does the same, dropping the rust-colored bags onto the landing, Montparnasse twists to give him yet another disdainful look.

“Is there a problem?” Enjolras says, strained, about ready to snap and start punching him.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes and flips the top off of his suitcase, angling it so that Enjolras can see the neatly-arranged weaponry inside of it. “Or did your widdle arms need to take a break?”

“It’s more like I’m quickly forgetting why the fuck I’m not lighting your suitcases on fire. And I thought the plan didn’t involve going in shooting,” Enjolras says, crossing his arms as he glares at Montparnasse. “Or is this some sort of cunning plan? Show up acting like pathetically amateur arms dealers?”

“Damn, now _that’s_ how you do a sassy hip tilt,” Montparnasse says.

“What?”

“Jesus Christ,” Montparnasse mutters, shaking his head, and pulls out a pistol, not even bothering with a silencer. Enjolras doesn’t know if that’s arrogance, or disdain, or thinking nobody would call the police. Montparnasse looks right at him, eyebrows raised, expectant.

Enjolras just looks right back.

“Such a fucking princess,” Montparnasse says, and moves past Enjolras to open the door. When Enjolras moves to walk in, he instead finds Montparnasse in his way, giving him a stunned, almost offended frown. “You won’t open doors but you expect to go through first? I don’t think so.”

Enjolras is so surprised he ends up watching Montparnasse walk through, and the door is shut in Enjolras’ face before he can even try to get in.

It’s something Enjolras never noticed, never even considered. It’s just how things go, when he’s with Grantaire. Grantaire opens the door, and Enjolras is first through. It’s how things are when Grantaire is there, but Grantaire isn’t there.

He doesn’t know where Grantaire is.

But whoever is inside might.

The building is secure enough that Enjolras doesn’t think it’ll be a risk to leave Montparnasse’s equipment in the hallway like this, so he opens the door and walks in without another thought to it.

The wood floor is varnished but still creaks with the age of the building, and it’s a beautiful home with high ceilings and clean lines that Enjolras can appreciate. As he walks deeper, he sees the sparse decorations, the plain characterless furniture, the barcodes left on the family pictures that came in the frames that were mounted on walls and put on shelves.

“I’m thinking someone else’s been here,” Montparnasse calls out, timed almost perfectly as Enjolras walks into the kitchen. “Probably with the same idea.”

A woman is sprawled over the kitchen table, the corpse’s torso hanging halfway off of it. A bloody apron hangs right along with her, obviously having caught most of her blood. Her eyes are closed, but it doesn’t keep the horror from still twisting her face into something Enjolras doesn’t want to see. 

Montparnasse reaches into one of his pockets, pulling out what looks like blue latex. Enjolras watches him separate the mass of plastic until he has two blue surgical gloves in hand, snapping them on. When he notices Enjolras watching him, he says, “I’m not risking good gloves for a corpse.”

It’s reasonable enough, so Enjolras just concentrates on the body. Her death was merciless and efficient and quiet. The only noises were probably her screams. There are two clean stab wounds on her chest, and then she was stabbed through the neck, right into her jugular.

Enjolras knows that strike. He’d wondered about it for nearly a year before he’d asked Grantaire why he did it, why he preferred that to slitting someone’s throat. It’s not faster, it’s not kinder, it’s not any better in any way. It was just _strange_.

Grantaire had shrugged, lit a cigarette, and said, _The family can have an open casket if they want._

Enjolras had forgotten people had families, after a while. He paralyzed that part of himself, the part that saw people as _people_ , the part that known humanity existed beyond ABC. Seeing them as targets was easier, simpler. He tried to be polite about civilians, at least, tried to be as merciful of a murderer he could when someone had just gotten in the way.

But that was Enjolras.

With Grantaire, he’d always known they were killing people with families, and friends, and lives. He just hadn’t given a fuck, beyond having the small kindness of killing just politely enough that they could be mourned in peace. Enjolras has always wondered about that. In the end, he realized that to Grantaire, for most people, it’s not living that matters. It’s not the individual that is important.

What matters is your loved ones. It’s your connections. It’s love, not life, that Grantaire values.

Montparnasse pokes away at the body, lifting the apron off of her. “Shame she’s dead,” he says.

Enjolras nods, and looks around the kitchen, leaving the body to Montparnasse’s seemingly capable blue hands. “That’s one lead down the drain,” he says.

“Well yeah, but I meant that Rachel here had some _excellent_ sartorial – well. You don’t give a fuck,” Montparnasse says. “Just a waste of taste, is all. Whoever offed her could’ve stripped her at least.”

Enjolras stares at him.

“They only made forty of these aprons,” Montparnasse says, as if that explains everything. He casually tugs at the blood-soaked fabric. “Say what you want about dry cleaners, but there’s no saving it.”

He needs to get rid of Montparnasse before he decides to murder Enjolras for his custom-made coat.

It takes a moment, but Enjolras manages to shake off his stunned disgust and look around. Grantaire had to have done it for a reason. Senseless murder wasn’t something he did, or hadn’t done for all of the time Enjolras had known him, at least. He moves further into the apartment, turns away from the kitchen and moves into the bedroom while Montparnasse keeps talking.

“Fine, do business,” Montparnasse says, trailing after Enjolras and holding his hands up like a surgeon preparing to operate. “Guessing it’s your boy who did the deed?”

“And what makes you think that?” Enjolras asks, quickly looking through the dresser. The drawers are empty of everything but socks and sleeping clothes, the closet has nothing but hangers. It’s very, very obvious that the apartment isn’t occupied full-time.

“No wondering who killed her, mostly,” Montparnasse says, and leans against the doorframe, watching Enjolras move into the bathroom. “But this is good, right? You know your boy was here.”

“He’s not my boy,” Enjolras says, and sighs, because this is getting them _nowhere_. “Husband, partner, lover, comrade, other half, there’s plenty of phrases better than _your boy_. And they don’t make him sound like he’s twelve.”

Montparnasse nods. “Don’t need even more temptation, do you,” he says. When Enjolras just frowns at him, he pulls off a glove, then the other, scowling. “You’re just completely fucking oblivious, aren’t you? I’m saying you fuck little boys.”

Enjolras can’t do anything but gape at him for a long, long moment. Montparnasse looks smug. And then Montparnasse looks irritated. And then Montparnasse tosses his hands in the air and says, “Boring, boring, you are _so_ boring.”

His brain starts to process the scenario, then, going through recent events, ticking off words and expressions, turns of phrase (and questioning _sartorial_ , Montparnasse doesn’t seem like someone who would say sartorial), physical ticks.

“That was a joke,” Enjolras says, and it feels true, feels like the right conclusion. It settles in his mind, under the small but growing compartment of Montparnasse information. “You think that’s funny. That’s your sense of humor.”

Montparnasse’s shoulders tighten, but he turns to face Enjolras, quirks an eyebrow at him. “So?”

“It’s not funny. At all,” Enjolras says, and shakes his head, moving back to the body in the kitchen. “It was clunky, too. Then again, that’s probably since I wasn’t picking up on it. You had to make it clunky so I’d notice.”

Enjolras examines Rachel’s wallet on his own. There’s not much information to learn, other than her name, age, citizenship, and whether or not she requires corrective lenses or happens to be an organ donor.

There’s _nothing_ to learn here, is what Enjolras is starting to realize. Nothing but that Grantaire killed someone.

If Enjolras takes the phone call into account, and how dried the blood is, she was probably murdered three hours ago. He turns to look at Montparnasse, tell him they’re moving on to whatever other option he had, but Montparnasse is still, expression blank, looking at the ceiling. Or towards the ceiling, maybe.

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” Montparnasse says to absolutely nothing, and pulls his pistol out from his coat. Enjolras doesn’t even have time to ask what he’s planning to do, can only flinch and cover his ears as Montparnasse aims towards the large windows and fires once, twice, three times, sending glass crashing onto the street below. He turns to Enjolras and asks, “You got anything of his?”

He has a shirt they share. He has socks on his feet that could belong to either of them. He has a wedding ring and a small pad of paper and pen for if Grantaire gets bored and he has a pack of cigarettes for if Grantaire gets twitchy and he has one single tiny emergency single shot-sized bottle of vodka for if Grantaire is shaking himself to death or sweating and pale and clammy or it’s between a drink and a panic attack, if it’s between sobriety and safety.

“No,” Enjolras says.

“Oh that’s right, you don’t have any of your shit, have to get you some,” Montparnasse says, nodding to himself.

“Is there are reason you decided to shoot the fucking window out?” Enjolras asks, motioning to the broken remains. There are shouts in the street below, the sound of distant sirens, frantic voices and a din of anxious noise. “Do you _want_ to get arrested?”

“Nah,” Montparnasse says, and heads for the front door. “Just giving Reichard more of a mess to deal with. Come on, we’ve got places to be.”

“Why didn’t we go there first?” Enjolras asks, and this part he knows. Montparnasse stows his gun back in the suitcase, and soon enough they’re hurrying down the stairs. He lets Montparnasse take the lead, because (again, and it seems more like an _as always_ ) Grantaire did this part. Or he was better at it.

“Because this would’ve been five thousand times easier,” Montparnasse says, and opens the door to see a group of panicked, cautious spectators. He’s an excellent actor, tripping over his bag, doing all of the appropriate _I’m getting the fuck out of here_ babble if confronted, and looking backwards at the building as they hurry away. People might remember them, but they’ll be long gone by the time that happens.

It’s a quick pace that they keep up until they hit the river, quiet and just a little winded. Montparnasse stops without a word of warning.

“See, people are easier to break than safes or computers,” Montparnasse says. He pulls out another stick of gum, leaning against the stonework that separates the path from the waterway. “So if I need to know something, I go for people.” 

Enjolras nods, only to realize he’s been a complete _fool_ , absolutely incompetent and reckless and doing this the hard way, the panicked way. “For you, maybe,” Enjolras says, and feels a frantic sense of excitement building inside of him, like it’s going to explode and he’ll end up laughing from relief.

Montparnasse gives him a wary look. “You losing it?”

“Found it,” Enjolras says, and pulls his phone out of one of his pockets, ignoring Montparnasse’s _ohhhh_. It’s a matter of moments to scroll through his contacts and find Combeferre’s number. He feels almost giddy, because Combeferre will know what to do. Combeferre knows everything.

When he dials, it takes two rings for Combeferre to answer. He sounds exhausted, and not happy to hear from Enjolras. “Hello?”

And everything is going to be okay. He says, “I know you’re probably busy, but I really need you to-”

“ _Enjolras?!_ ” Combeferre says, practically shouts it, and Enjolras winces. “Enjolras, is that you? Where are you? Whose phone are you on? Are you alright?”

Enjolras frowns. “Of course it’s me, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not – just tell me where you are, we can get this fixed. Did a supermodel abduct you?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras has never in their entire lives heard Combeferre sounding this frazzled, like he’s trying to do ten things at the same time and is endlessly frustrating with each and every one of them. “What?” He frowns, and glances over at Montparnasse (who could definitely be described as a supermodel). Montparnasse is chewing gum like an asshole, concentrating on doing something with his own phone. “Listen, I need your help finding someone. He calls himself Reichard-”

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Combeferre shouts, somewhere between a roar and a snarl, and it’s so shocking that Enjolras nearly drops the phone, nearly misses the rest of Combeferre’s words. “You tell me every single thing you have about Reichard and you tell me right now because I am going to find him and murder him with my bare fucking hands Enjolras _tell me what you know_.”

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks carefully.

“Do I sound okay? Is _anyone_ okay right now? And you were going to tell me something, weren’t you,” Combeferre says.

Combeferre doesn’t get angry very often. When he does, it’s usually a cold anger, something he can harness and turn into results. Enjolras has only heard Combeferre like this two times, one of which was Combeferre scaring Enjolras’ parents into leaving him alone. The other was in defense of Courfeyrac in the very early days of ABC, when they were still _fools_ calling themselves Les Amis, when Enjolras didn’t understand that no, he was _not_ cheating on Combeferre. Or dating Combeferre in the first place. Every single time he’s heard Combeferre raise his voice, it was in defense of someone.

But this time, this is a hate so powerful that Enjolras is almost scared of his oldest, closest friend.

“I don’t have much information,” Enjolras says carefully.

“That doesn’t matter. Just tell me what you know,” Combeferre commands.

Enjolras does, starting from reviewing the security footage and going through finding and making a deal with Montparnasse, all the way to to the contact’s corpse in an apartment in Lyon. “Which is where I am now,” Enjolras adds.

“This is useful, thank you. I've saved the number for the phone you’re using, are you going to be keeping it on you?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras frowns, moves the phone away from his ear for a moment before saying, “This is my phone.”

“I’ll add it as a contact, then,” Combeferre says.

“No, I mean I’m holding my phone right now,” Enjolras says. “ _My_ phone.”

“No you aren’t, because I have it right here on my desk,” Combeferre says. “The number is different. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you since you disappeared this morning. You said Grantaire was surprised it was you when he called?”

“It looks _exactly_ like my phone, it even has my contacts in it. If this isn’t my phone, someone went through a lot of work to make me think it is,” Enjolras says. They also planted it on him somehow, before he called Gavroche, which meant it was probably someone in the crowd around the burned-out museum.

“Oh you are fucking _kidding_ me. Enjolras, I swear to fucking god I need to murder this man or die trying,” Combeferre says, and very definitely means it. “The number’s registered to _Reichard Combeferre_.”

And Combeferre’s reaction makes a lot more sense now.

Combeferre isn’t competitive, or insecure. Combeferre never feels like he nees to prove himself. Of course, that didn’t mean he’d let anyone get away with it if they insulted him. If someone challenged Combeferre, he didn’t get angry. He just did better than his challenger, quietly humiliated them with his own success.

This is the first time Enjolras can remember Combeferre being incapable of that, of _really_ being challenged. Not to mention getting taunted while it happened.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get him,” Enjolras says simply, confidently, believing every word. Combeferre can do anything. It’s just probably going to take him longer to win this time. “I’m hunting Grantaire more than Reichard, though. When I-”

“I’ll keep an ear out,” Combeferre says. “Keep that phone with you at all times, and if he calls, you call me the moment you've hung up.”

“It might be too late by then. The last time Grantaire called, he’d killed someone,” Enjolras says.

“What? Grantaire? No, I mean Reichard,” Combeferre says. “If you need something, call Courfeyrac, he’s in charge until I deal with Reichard. Just keep following your supermodel.”

“If you need to talk-” Enjolras begins, but Combeferre hangs up before he can finish. Enjolras has never been the best at consoling his friends, but he tries, and effort really does make a difference when you’re trying to help someone. But this, it doesn’t seem right. Combeferre isn’t supposed to lose his temper, isn’t supposed to lose even a little bit of his calm self-control.

“So where’s your guide pointing us?” Montparnasse asks, cracking a bubble between his jaws, not quite smirking at Enjolras. 

“He’ll have more information later,” Enjolras says.

“Course he will,” Montparnasse says, obviously not believing it, and stretches. “I have a guy who knows a guy, says we can meet him tomorrow. Train station, 7 AM.”

“Why not today?” Enjolras asks.

Montparnasse shrugs. “Some questions aren’t worth their answers,” he says. “There’s a hotel two streets north of here. Not nice, but you won’t be recognized. Safe enough.”

It dawns on Enjolras that Montparnasse really is a _professional_ , as endlessly irritating as he might be. Enjolras has been out of the business for too long. He’s been naïve about this entire situation. He just rushed off without giving enough, if _any_ , thought to what he’s doing. If it wasn’t for Montparnasse, he’d probably be having a panic attack in a far-away train station.

He looks at Montparnasse, really _looks_ at him, past the smacking gum and the absurd silver pants and the completely unnecessarily complicated hairstyle and the fact he's wearing sunglasses on an overcast day, and thinks, _he knows what he’s doing._

“I trust you to do your job,” Enjolras tells him. “I trust you to keep your end of the bargain. You get me to Grantaire, and I’ll get you in a room with a still-living Reichard.”

“But. That’s,” Montparnasse says, and stops. He looks stunned, shocked, like Enjolras just slapped him across the face. “That's not the original deal. Information and directions for all expenses paid, that was the deal.”

“And it still applies,” Enjolras agrees. “All expenses paid, with every attempt at getting you your revenge officially added on if you help me find Grantaire.” When Montparnasse hesitates, Enjolras adds, “The two already go together. One will lead to the other. It’s not much of an addendum.”

“Fair,” Montparnasse says, but still hesitates. He turns away, grabs two of the rust-colored suitcases and starts leading them towards the hotel. “I’ll sleep on it.”

Enjolras nods, because that’s understandable. “Do you want me to draw up a written contract?”

“ _Fuck_ no,” Montparnasse says. “And after we check in, you’re having expenses. I’m going shopping.”

He can’t see anything wrong with that. “I’ll try to do some research-”

“What? Oh no, no, Moneypenny, you’re coming with,” Montparnasse says.

It dawns on Enjolras that Montparnasse might be a professional, but he’s still a piece of shit.

\---

Enjolras sleeps deeply, but not for long. The clock is blinking 2:38AM in digital red bursts of light when his planted phone rings. It's the same ringtone as on his own phone, the same display as his own. Still, he’s careful about answering the unknown number, on edge. “Hello?”

It’s loud on the other end, the telltale babbling near-static that comes with making a phone call in a crowded room. He listens, hand tight around the phone, because there’s two options for who is calling him. He knows he should want it to be Reichard, but _fuck_ , he _needs_ to be Grantaire, needs it like he needs Grantaire’s warm body in the empty space of his full-sized hotel bed. He tries to get rid of the desperation clinging to his throat as he says, “Grantaire?”

There's a long sigh. “I never deserved you,” Grantaire says, barely audible, whispering in a room full of shouts and laughter. Even with how quiet the words are, he can tell two things immediately. 

First, Grantaire is very, very drunk, drunk in a way he’s managed to avoid for nearly a year. For someone as brilliant and skilled as Grantaire, there’s just a small lilt of a slur to his words. For someone who wasn’t as amazing, they would probably be completely out of control by now. It’s not good.

Second, Grantaire has reached that point of hopelessness where he starts taking it out on himself. This, he can’t avoid, not really. It seems to cycle through, leaving Grantaire bitter and acidic and spending hours staring at nothing no matter what Enjolras does. He’s accepted this, just tries to keep Grantaire healthy and eating and knowing he’s loved when it happens.

Not being there when Grantaire is like this is physically painful, hurts his chest like he’s been smashed with a wrecking ball. “Where are you?” Enjolras asks. “Are you still in Lyon?” Please, please, let him still be in Lyon. Enjolras will sprint, will fly, will do anything to get to him and take care of him.

“I’m gone,” Grantaire says. “You shouldn’t. You can do so much better, I’m trash, I’m-”

“Grantaire, please, where are you?” Enjolras asks, and knows he sounds desperate, but he also knows there’s no way to reassure Grantaire when he gets like this. Not verbally. It takes long nights in bed and warm mornings on the couch and a hand on him at every moment he can manage it, it takes _touch_ , and he can’t touch, and it’s killing him. “Please, Grantaire, please let me find you, whatever I did I didn’t mean it I’m so so sorry, I’m sorry, please, Grantaire, _please_.”

“That’s the third time you’ve ever apologized to me,” Grantaire says. “It’s funny, you always do it when you didn’t do anything, you just think there’s something wrong with _you_ and you can’t fix it. But you don’t need to fix it. There’s nothing to fix.” He laughs, and it’s a terrible sound. “I’m broken.”

“No you aren’t,” Enjolras says, even if he knows it won’t do anything. “You’re wonderful.”

“I’m so broken, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers.

The moment Grantaire says it, Enjolras immediately starts talking nonsense, telling him how much he’s loved and how much he matters, but knows it doesn’t do a single fucking thing beyond giving Grantaire his voice babbling in his ear. And Enjolras can’t do anything, and it’s _torture_. He stands up, starts pacing, trying to think around the ache in his heart. He’s not used to feeling like this, helpless and desperate with no way to do anything about it.

Enjolras pauses. _He_ can’t be there, but someone else can.

“Grantaire, hand the phone to the first attractive person you see,” Enjolras says.

“What?” Grantaire asks, obviously confused.

“Just fucking do it, Grantaire!” Enjolras shouts, and he never shouts, does it very rarely, and that’s why it takes only moments for a new voice to come on the line. 

There’s a few moments of conversation, and then he’s handed over. “Wha-uhm. Hello?” a woman says. There’s a slight accent, probably Greek, but it doesn’t mean anything. Grantaire has a bizarre talent of finding the tourists instead of the locals wherever he goes.

“I need you to hug my husband,” Enjolras says. “He just handed you the phone, and I’m not there so I can’t do it, but you can. Give the phone back to him and then hug him. Can you do that?”

“Uh. Sure? I guess?” she says, and there’s nothing but the roar of noise for a moment until Grantaire is back.

“Enjolras, I – what the fuck,” Grantaire says.

There’s a small amount of panic in his voice, so Enjolras is quick about saying, “It’s fine, I told her to.”

“Of course you did,” Grantaire says, but it sounds better, he already sounds more like himself, albeit more than a little wild. He sounds unhinged, but Enjolras will happily take that over the black mood of before. It's safer. Slightly.

Enjolras and Grantaire are almost always together, and when they are, they’re usually touching. They hold hands, they lean against each other, they exist so physically close to each other that it feels strange just standing alone sometimes. As shudder-worthy as the thought is, the fact remains that Enjolras has had Montparnasse nearby. It’s made it easier, probably fooled his brain into thinking everything is more okay than it really is.

But Grantaire hasn’t had that. Or he doesn’t think so, at least.

He remembers Grantaire saying, _I just needed someone to touch me_.

Enjolras has no problem with the idea of Grantaire having sex with someone else. He knows where he ranks when it comes to Grantaire, and it’s impossible to feel threatened in the face of that. Grantaire, though, is another story. Even after more than two years together (and _four_ of being partners), he still seems completely blown away by the idea that Enjolras loves him, always tries to be worthy. 

This would have to be done very carefully, and it’s already nearing 3AM.

While the idea of Grantaire having sex with someone else doesn’t bother him, the idea of what Grantaire really needs, the idea of Grantaire curled up warm and quiet with someone _not Enjolras_ , does. That’s _his_ , those quiet soft moments have belonged to Enjolras ever since they met, and Enjolras is selfish when it comes to Grantaire. But if Grantaire needs someone to touch him, and it can’t be Enjolras, he’ll find a way to manage.

Enjolras sets that aside for another time, focusing on the moment. If Grantaire is this bad after one day, it’s dangerous to think of what tomorrow might bring. He can't do that now. No matter what he could try, it wouldn't work right now.

“Let’s go to bed,” Enjolras says simply. It's ridiculous, and he doesn't give a fuck.

“What?” Grantaire asks. The slur is getting deeper, probably exhaustion mixing in. He tries to ignore the resignation, the stillness that doesn't fit Grantaire. “Enjolras, you can’t just-”

“Yes I can, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, tries to somehow manage to be reassuring while getting Grantaire to do what he wants. He could do this in person, he knows he could, but he isn’t there and this is the best he can do, and he. “Let me walk you back to your hotel and let me just, fuck, just let me hear you breathe, that’s all I’m asking, just give me that, I don’t know what happened but I’ll fix it, I promise, just let me help you.”

All he can hear is a crowd’s laughter and music on the other end. All he can concentrate on is the absolute silence from Grantaire. He thinks he might hear him swallow, but it’s the sound of more alcohol, and suddenly Enjolras can think of nothing but Tripoli.

“I’m going to find you,” Enjolras says, with such a feeling of conviction that he could will continent-spanning bridges into existence if Grantaire would only tell him the destination.

And Grantaire _laughs_ , high and helpless and bitter. Enjolras’ heart clenches. “No you won’t,” he says, and hangs up.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says to the dial tone, as if he can summon him back, ends up screaming it because Grantaire isn’t okay and he won’t let Enjolras do anything about it, and Enjolras always fixes it. He fucks up sometimes but he _fixes it_ and they were so happy, this is torture, he needs Grantaire’s hand in his own. He needs Grantaire snoring when he’s completely exhausted. He needs Grantaire in a way he never imagined before, didn’t think people were even capable of.

Someone is pounding on his door, and Enjolras almost doesn’t answer it, almost gives in and curls up on top of his cold hotel bed, but he doesn’t. It’s not quite a surprise to see Montparnasse standing there in nothing but expensive sweatpants and holding a gun.

“You safe?” Montparnasse asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says.

“’Kay,” Montparnasse says, and walks away.

Enjolras closes the door, and can't even think.

It isn’t until the next morning, when Enjolras has showered and is getting dressed in the ridiculous clothing Montparnasse demanded he buy for himself, that he remembers their rooms are on different floors.


	4. L'hôtel du Lyon - Gare de la Part-Dieu

The city is deafening in its quiet hours, every passing car raking across whatever tender mess is left of Enjolras’ mind. He can’t sleep, can’t even try to, can’t slide beneath cold sheets because Grantaire isn’t there. 

He hasn’t slept without Grantaire in over two years. 

Sometimes he’d be late coming to bed, and sometimes Grantaire wouldn’t sleep, sometimes he just _can’t_ , but he’d still be in bed. He’d be silent, but he would let Enjolras hold him. Grantaire’s mind drifts away sometimes, but their bodies, at least, are always together. It’s the way they’re meant to be.

Enjolras curls up on top of the hotel bed, and lies to himself.

He pretends it’s an obnoxiously bright morning in Paris, that he’s actually curled in their bed at home, and everything’s fine. Everything’s fine except for the way Grantaire sighs, longsuffering but affectionate.

“You have to wake up at _some_ point,” Grantaire says, more like it’s a trivial fact than a reminder that yes, today’s obligations do exist. Activities exist. The world outside of their warm bed exists.

Enjolras tucked himself around Grantaire in the night, keeping him pressedtight against Enjolras’ chest, nose pressed against the nape of his neck. “That point isn’t right now,” he says, and moves just enough to kiss the bare skin of Grantaire’s shoulder.

“You just proved you’re awake, so it’s obviously that point right now,” Grantaire says, and twists in Enjolras’ arms. He immediately releases Grantaire, because he doesn’t know if Grantaire wants him to stop touching him, or really does want to get out of bed, or just wants to curl up in a different position. Grantaire shifts, turns to face Enjolras, and then after a moment Enjolras finds his back pressed back onto the mattress as Grantaire moves over him, straddling his waist. “There are some benefits to being awake, I think.”

“You’re much more than a benefit,” Enjolras says, and something strange seeps into him, into the situation, something like anxiety. Or fear. He pretends he doesn’t know the cause. He reaches forward, dares to take Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire happily provides, smiles at him, leans down to kiss him. It’s slow and lazy, they’re taking their time. He runs his spare hand through Grantaire’s sleep-mussed hair. His fingers stick in one particularly nasty knot, and Grantaire pulls away with a wince that quickly turns into a snicker.

But Enjolras hurt him. Enjolras hurt him, and Enjolras’ eyes go wide and he immediately says, “I’m so sorry, Grantaire. I’m so sorry, please, let me fix it, _please_ -”

No.

Grantaire pulls away with a wince that quickly turns into a snicker, and Enjolras sits up, gets Grantaire settled in his lap. Grantaire’s forehead is pressed against his collarbone as Enjolras works on the knot, works on Grantaire’s hair until it’s as tangle-free as it’ll ever get. Grantaire has his lips pressed against his skin, nuzzles against him, arms wrapped around Enjolras.

“Better?” Enjolras asks.

“Mm,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras can feel him smile, soft and content. “I love you.”

No.

No, that’s not Grantaire.

“Better?” Enjolras asks.

“I do have a comb, you know,” Grantaire mutters, but it’s not a protest, not in the least. He’s smiling against Enjolras’ skin, but he _still_ says, “You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Enjolras says firmly, honestly.

“You’re ridiculous,” Grantaire says, and lifts his head, looking curiously into Enjolras’ eyes. “You’re _extra_ ridiculous this morning. Bad dreams?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, not even bothering to call him on the lie. “I’m _fine_ , Grantaire. Really.”

“One of these days I’m going to actually make you talk about it,” he warns, and kisses Enjolras lightly.

Enjolras doesn’t let him pull away. He uses the hand still combing through Grantaire’s hair to keep their lips pressed together, and his eyes slide shut, he nips lightly at Grantaire’s lower lip and tries to swallow the sharp gasp he’s rewarded with. Enjolras separates from his lips only to kiss his neck, taste his pulse, breathe against his straining throat.

Grantaire says, “Fuck, you’re-”

“Don’t leave me,” Enjolras says.

No.

Except no, no, he definitely does. He fucking _does_ say it.

“Don’t leave me,” Enjolras says, rough and urgent. He holds Grantaire too tight, tight enough that it probably hurts, but Grantaire just returns the motion, clings right back. “I need you. Don’t leave me.”

“I couldn’t leave you even if I tried,” Grantaire says, and he says it like a fact, says it like any other option is ridiculous and impossible, says it with a kind of absolute certainty that Enjolras can barely deal with. He grabs Grantaire’s thighs, pulls him flush with Enjolras from chest to cock, loves the feel of skin against skin. They usually sleep naked, and last night they curled up and ignored anything beyond their still-slowing pulses from Enjolras pushing him down face-first on the bed and fucking him breathless.

And Grantaire knows he has to start it, knows this is where it stops if he doesn’t say or do anything.

Grantaire definitely does something. He makes a pleased, inquiring noise, and grinds against him and _yes_ , Enjolras can touch him. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, but it’s what he _wants_ , gets on his knees and Grantaire lets out a startled (but not objecting, definitely not objecting) yelp as his back hits the sheets. Enjolras kisses him, and Grantaire’s fingers immediately dig themselves into Enjolras’ hair, fingernails scraping along his scalp.

He doesn’t know exactly what he wants. This happens sometimes, and he’s used to it, but it feels more frantic, more helpless. He just wants to take care of Grantaire, wants to be _with_ Grantaire, wants to make Grantaire blissfully happy, and most of all wants it to be _him_ that makes him that way. He wants Grantaire in every single way he can get him.

“What do you want?” Enjolras asks.

“Anything you want,” Grantaire says immediately, which is good. It’s permission. Enjolras likes permission.

He’ll figure it out. He kisses Grantaire again, makes it slow, makes it as perfect as possible, runs a hand down his side and thinks, _mine_. 

Enjolras usually has an agenda, has an immediate plan, knows what’ll happen and knows it’ll be glorious. He could do so many things, loves doing every single one of them. But all Enjolras wants is Grantaire happy and safe and with him, wants to be able to touch him, _needs_ to be able to touch him because-

No.

He kisses his way down Grantaire’s chest and says, “List the members of the National Assembly.”

 _What?_ No. 

He doesn’t fucking do that, why the fuck would he do that?

What he does is kiss his way down Grantaire’s chest, he definitely does that, and Grantaire still has his hands tangled in Enjolras’ overly long hair and says, “So I was thinking we could go on a vacation.”

Enjolras makes an inquisitive _go on_ noise, teases Grantaire’s nipple for a moment before he slowly moves lower.

“We could just, you know. Leave for a while,” Grantaire says. “Just you and me. Go to Portugal or something, or maybe Rome-”

“Not Rome,” Enjolras says, words muffled against Grantaire’s hip. “You like Rome more than you like me.”

“I do _not_ ,” Grantaire says.

“Not Rome. I already have to compete with the Louvre,” Enjolras says, and bites down just hard enough to get a gasp, to get Grantaire’s hand clenched tight in his hair for a moment.

“Completely ridiculous,” Grantaire breathes out, voice soft, in love, _fuck_ , Enjolras twists his head to the side and just wraps his lips around Grantaire’s hardening cock, loves him, loves the way Grantaire’s just-begun sentence turns into a whine as Enjolras runs the tip of his tongue along his cock in the way he’s learned makes Grantaire unravel faster than anything else he can do with his mouth. Other than talk. There are exactly two drawbacks to getting his mouth on Grantaire’s cock and those are not being able kiss him, and not being able to talk.

Thankfully, Grantaire can do the talking. And he does. He drags his fingers through Enjolras’ hair and says, “Oh, _Enjolras_ , I love your mouth.”

Which is close, but not quite, what he wants to hear.

He’s been going slow, savoring it, eyes closed and loving the small noises Grantaire can’t help but make as Enjolras mouths at him. It’s more than okay, it’s fantastic, but it’s not _quite_ what he wants. But Enjolras can get him there quickly enough.

Enjolras looks up, eyes locking with Grantaire’s for a moment, and Grantaire must see something in them because his expression changes into apprehension and arousal. He visibly tenses, steeling himself.

“Oh no,” Grantaire breathes out.

Which is as good a cue as any, for Enjolras.

He grabs Grantaire’s hips, grip tight enough that there might be bruises later, and swallows down as much of Grantaire’s cock as he can, keeping Grantaire’s hips pressed so hard to the mattress that Grantaire’s helpless thrusting does nothing but drive him crazy. Grantaire’s hands are both in Enjolras’ hair, obviously torn between petting and tugging as Grantaire holds on, legs spread wide and welcoming. “Fuck, oh _fuck_ , Enjolras-”

It’s going to be rough and going to hurt him a little bit but Enjolras _knows_ Grantaire by now, knows his body and what he can take and what he _wants_ to take, what makes him shudder hardest, moan loudest. Enjolras pulls a hand away from Grantaire’s hips and keeps his pelvis pressed down instead while he pulls away just long enough to get two fingers into his mouth, and then thrusts one mercilessly inside of Grantaire.

Even keeping him pressed tightly against their bed, Grantaire arches, Grantaire tries to thrust. “Oh god you’re so, you’re _so_ -”

Enjolras pulls his finger out, reaches towards the nightstand to grab the lube. He tries to keep Grantaire still pressed tight against the mattress. “I’m going to fuck you,” Enjolras tells him.

Grantaire says, “Please-”

No. He doesn’t need to beg. Not now.

Grantaire says, “ _Fuck_ yes.” It’s almost a growl. When he reaches for Enjolras, he’s more than willing to have his mouth dragged down against Grantaire’s.

He knows this kind of kiss, this sort of intense breathy contact between them. Enjolras has made an effort to read every single breath and shake and noise Grantaire gives him, in or out of bed. He wants to catalog and classify every cell in his body, and he knows what this kind of kiss means. It’s the devotee kiss, when he wants rough worship, when he wants to give Enjolras the sort of things that can only be discussed quietly after midnight, and all Enjolras has to do is ask.

He can do that.

Enjolras quickly slicks up two of his fingers, does it by touch and is probably going to have to wash the sheets again but doesn’t fucking care because he can keep kissing Grantaire, can tilt his head back and bite at his jaw and listen to the sharp gasps that he’s rewarded with. Grantaire’s hands are back in his hair, because Grantaire knows he likes that, and Grantaire is so beautifully accommodating.

Sometimes – just _sometimes_ , nothing often, just sometimes – he wants to see how far he could push. He wants to see if there really are boundaries. But Enjolras doesn’t push, and never will, because he knows there are boundaries, and he knows that even with all the slow steady trust and confidence he’s managed to coax out of Grantaire through the past two years, Grantaire wouldn’t tell him when he’d hit a boundary. Grantaire wouldn’t say a fucking word, and it’s why Enjolras doesn’t push, and it’s why Enjolras reads every single twitch in his muscles as he turns Grantaire’s head back for a filthy kiss, all tongue, no finesse.

Grantaire’s eyes are closed when Enjolras pulls away, mouth still open, lips a beautiful kiss-induced red.

There’s no finesse involved when Enjolras pushes two fingers inside of Grantaire, nothing but lubricant and pressure and Grantaire’s eyes shooting wide open as he gapes, and then lets out a high whine when Enjolras pulls them out just as quickly.

“Don’t come,” Enjolras says.

“Oh _fuck you_ , you-” Grantaire bites out, and there’s obviously supposed to be more to the sentence, but it’s cut off with a helpless moan when Enjolras thrusts his fingers back inside of him. The pace Enjolras builds is fast, and he knows exactly where he’s aiming, and Grantaire’s eyes fucking _flutter_ , head tilting back onto the mattress as his back arches in that tight, jerking way that lets Enjolras know it’s completely unintentional.

“That’s not fair,” Grantaire says, breathy and holding Enjolras’ hair tightly with one hand, the other hand fisted tightly in the sheets. “God, this is _not_ fair, you merciless asshole, go from sucking my cock like that to _this_ and you-”

“Mercy belongs to hours with double digits,” Enjolras says.

“Oh yes, four hours of kindness in a day, how giving of you,” Grantaire bites out.

It obviously takes effort for Grantaire to say it, and it’s not that Enjolras doesn’t love the way Grantaire snaps at him, the way Grantaire can sometimes debate him into the floor like the merciless creature he accuses Enjolras of being. He loves that about Grantaire. It’s one of his many, many favorite things about him. But really, Enjolras’ plans involve babbling. Or possibly yelling. Maybe even screaming, if Grantaire wants.

But the point is, Grantaire is far too coherent, so Enjolras adds another finger without warning him. Words abandon Grantaire almost immediately. He only gets a strangled gasp out, and his eyes shoot wide open to stare at Enjolras.

“Hands,” Enjolras says, and doesn’t know quite what he’s asking for, what he’s ordering, but Grantaire clearly does. He puts his hands together in front of him, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and that’s good, that’s so good. “Good.”

He can tell Grantaire wants to beg and is fighting it for some reason, swallowing the words down. “Any time now,” he says, and squeezes his eyes shut. “ _Really_ , you are _very_ welcome. So fucking welcome.”

Enjolras thinks about dragging it out, teasing him, making him beg mindlessly, but he likes this too. He can get Grantaire to that lovely babbling mess later. “That’s nice to know,” Enjolras says, and grabs Grantaire’s joined wrists.

He knows Grantaire expects him to pin them to the mattress, expects Enjolras to restrain him somehow, but he doesn’t. Enjolras lifts Grantaire’s hands and hooks them around his shoulders, watches Grantaire lift with the movement, eyes open to blink for a moment and then smile at him. It’s close to a manic grin, delighted and feverish.

And this is right. _This_ is right.

Enjolras is slow when he thrusts inside of Grantaire, savors it, holds Grantaire tight and groans against his collarbone. It’s not the best position, but he’s tossed away any plans to make him scream, any plans to really _fuck_ him. He builds a rhythm that’s almost lazy, concentrating more on kissing Grantaire than anything else. He has one hand in Grantaire’s hair and another wrapped around his waist, keeping him close and tight.

Grantaire kisses messily, trying to keep control of himself as Enjolras slowly takes him apart. His eyes are closed, and when he gives up on kissing, gives up on controlling himself, he’s still smiling, shameless and beautiful and Enjolras thrusts harder just to watch him bite his lip, just to watch him moan.

“Put your left hand around your cock,” Enjolras says, because he has to be more precise when Grantaire gets like this, doesn’t like to see him look confused and unsure no matter what the cause is. Grantaire obeys, lets out a shuddering gasp at the touch. “You’re going to come when I tell you to.”

“Not a problem,” Grantaire breathes out. When Enjolras nips at his neck, Grantaire obligingly tilts his head up, right hand buried in Enjolras’ hair. “Fuck, just tell me when, I am so fucking ready to come, I’m-”

“Not yet,” Enjolras says, makes it just a little soothing, brushes sweat-damp hair away from Grantaire’s forehead. He loves this, _loves him_ , wants to do this forever but reality-

Not yet.

He grabs Grantaire’s hips, thrusts inside of him hard and fast and listens to Grantaire’s heartbeat speed up, listens to him go from rapid breaths to strangled panting as he drags Grantaire down onto his cock, makes a point of keeping them locked tightly against each other. It forces Grantaire’s hand to scrape against Enjolras’ stomach with every thrust, hard enough that Grantaire has no choice but to tighten his grip. “Oh _fuck_ Enjolras,” he chokes out. “Please-”

“Not yet,” Enjolras says.

“I hate you so much,” Grantaire hisses out.

“You love me,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire moans, just from that, and Enjolras is quickly losing control, thrusts deeper and more erratic. He bites down on Grantaire’s shoulder, loves the strangled _nnh_ noise Grantaire makes, like he’s torn between pain and pleasure.

“You – you love me,” Enjolras says again, voice rough, and bites Grantaire’s earlobe.

“Oh please oh please Enjolras oh please,” Grantaire says, and his heels are digging into Enjolras’ lower back. Enjolras can feel him jerking off frantically, knows him well enough that he can tell Grantaire is intentionally making it too tight, making it almost hurt, just to make sure he’s doing what Enjolras told him to. “Please, _fuck_ , I love you so much, _so much_ Enjolras-”

“Come,” Enjolras says, and it’s a command for both of them, because Enjolras can’t help but thrust inside one last time and _stay there_ , come inside of Grantaire while he feels Grantaire jerk against him, can hear him shout some mangled version of Enjolras’ name. 

“I love you,” Enjolras tells him, pulls out, kisses him sweet and firmly. Grantaire returns it, keeps running his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, and smiles. Enjolras thinks about them just staying here, just going to sleep again, but no, he loves the boneless sprawl of Grantaire against him, the way he’s propped against Enjolras’ chest. He says it again, presses _I love you_ against his sweat-shined skin.

He would pull Grantaire into his arms, and he would draw a bath, make a point of fixing the tangles left in Grantaire’s hair and ignore Grantaire’s almost incidental _you don’t have to do this, I can wash my own fucking hair, Enjolras_ , because he’s gotten used to it but still protests. He wouldn’t be Grantaire without making Enjolras’ life intentionally difficult, just because he can. He doesn’t do it in a cruel way, doesn’t do it in a disdainful way, it’s just how Grantaire keeps him on his toes, how Grantaire keeps him sharp and self-aware, how Grantaire keeps him in check.

Enjolras doesn’t let himself imagine beyond that, doesn’t extend the lie beyond soothing hands and slick skin in warm water.

He gets off of the bed, long past even trying to get some sleep. He washes his hand off in the sink, washes the rest of himself in the shower, and after a long resigned sigh he grabs the high-priced bag Montparnasse demanded he buy for himself, dresses in some of the clothing Montparnasse said he _needs_ to have.

When Enjolras looks in the mirror, he looks gaunt and unfamiliar, a well-dressed man dying slowly. He’s fine with it. He’s not trying to impress anyone.

It’s barely 5:30 in the morning when he gives up and heads to the lobby early, and is surprised to see Montparnasse already waiting, all four suitcases arrayed neatly behind him. He has rhinestones on his unnecessary scarf today. Enjolras doesn’t even want to know what he thinks is going on there.

“Sleep any?” Montparnasse asks, and doesn’t even look up from whatever handheld game system he’s playing with.

“No,” Enjolras answers honestly. There’s no point in lying.

Montparnasse nods, like he didn’t expect anything different. “You gonna be able to shoot straight?” he asks.

“I’ll be fine,” Enjolras says, and for a moment wonders what the fuck Montparnasse is really doing here. He checked on Enjolras when his room is a floor away, he asks status questions, and he does it all while being an asshole, like it doesn’t matter. Which, in Enjolras’ experience with criminals, usually means it does. “Do you usually work alone?”

“It’s easier,” Montparnasse says simply, and snaps his game shut, tucks it into one suitcase’s pocket and then zips open another. It’s the weapons cache, and Enjolras can tell he’s definitely well-equipped when he turns the bag to face Enjolras. Montparnasse removes two pistols and four magazines, starts picking away at other assorted equipment. “Take your pick. They’re all good.”

Enjolras has to admit, Montparnasse has excellent taste. He misses the feel of a gun against his shoulder, sometimes, thinks about what it was like to just kill his problems with a single squeeze of his fingers on metal. The selection in front of him isn’t extensive, but it’s _impressive_ , high-quality and obviously well maintained.

There’s almost a sense of privilege when he plucks a _very_ nice pistol out of the custom-made case, and it’s just as easy as it ever was to tuck it into his coat, and then magazines, and he has his gloves, and it’s familiar. It’s so, so familiar. 

He’s halfway through ducking down and selecting a knife when Montparnasse lets out an aggravated groan. Enjolras looks up to see what’s happened, and for some reason, Montparnasse glaring at him.

“For fuck’s sake, you-” he says, and reaches out towards Enjolras, and he immediately thinks, _no_. Enjolras grabs his hand, twists it enough that his wrist has to hurt. Still, Montparnasse doesn’t show any sign of pain beyond the tight set of his eyebrows when he says, “Let go. I was going to fix your collar.”

Enjolras actually believes him. He releases Montparnasse and expects him to rub at his wrist, expects _something_ , but Montparnasse just turns back to the suitcase, as if nothing happened. “You done?” he asks.

“I am,” Enjolras says. 

There’s no other commentary, none of the strange not-quite-friendly treatment he’d been receiving yesterday. It’s just business. He zips the rust-colored suitcase back up and stands, says, “My guy gets in around seven, I’m heading over.”

Enjolras follows him.

\---

Gare de la Part-Dieu isn’t anything magical, isn’t anything Enjolras can really appreciate. He’s sure Grantaire could, but to him, it’s nothing but a train station created for functionality, with an addendum of white arching ceilings with inlaid rectangles. Even that attempt at architectural interest seems half-hearted. The station is a mass of white-colored walls and floors with a desperate attempt at keeping it all brightly lit and vaguely welcoming.

Enjolras has parked himself on a bench, watching people get on and off trains with their feet dragging along at 6:45 in the morning. It’s very reasonable. Enjolras yawns, head propped against the fist he planted on the armrest, and watches Montparnasse skitter around the station. 

Montparnasse is texting, and then he’s fucking around on his game, and then he’s watching trains or the arrivals board or passengers unnervingly intently, and then he’s lounging against a railing looking just as exhausted and bored as Enjolras feels.

He’s used to Grantaire, who just slinks around without even thinking about it, walks softly, moves smoothly, watches his footing so automatically that Enjolras can’t ever catch him at it. He just ducks his head down, multitasks with whatever other motion he’s doing, and never, ever trips. Unless he’s physically incapable of staying upright, he doesn’t trip. 

Montparnasse, Enjolras is realizing with a weird sense of dry resignation, just hops over anything that could trip him, makes stumbling look completely intentional. It’s a bit like watching a cat trying to hold on to its dignity after dropping off of a shelf. Or like watching Gavroche when he gets particularly lazy. But, unlike Montparnasse, Gavroche actually stops moving eventually.

It must be exhausting to be Montparnasse.

Enjolras closes his eyes, yawns again, and doesn’t quite nod off. It’s a close thing, though. When he opens them again Montparnasse is trotting over. “Train should be here soon,” he says. “Platform C.”

“We’re meeting him there?” Enjolras asks.

Montparnasse makes an amused noise. “Not that he knows,” he says, which means their discussion with Montparnasse’s contact is actually an ambush. That’s some information Enjolras could’ve used earlier, to say the least. “You coming?”

“You need to put your luggage somewhere before you go running off,” Enjolras says.

“Nah, it’s coming with,” Montparnasse says, and gives Enjolras an expectant look.

He sighs. “I genuinely hate you,” Enjolras says, but grabs his usual two bags, and it’s disgusting that he has his _usual bags_ while he’s toting Montparnasse’s luggage around. At least Montparnasse does the same. “Are you expecting to get on the train? Make some sort of suitcase-related trade for information?”

Montparnasse shrugs and says, “You never know.”

Enjolras is past the point of genuinely objecting to towing along Montparnasse’s bags, by now, from a blend of exhaustion and knowing at least one of them has genuinely useful contents. 

He follows Montparnasse through the white-on-white architecture of Part-Dieu. They have excellent timing, since the train is just starting to unload passengers. Enjolras quickly sees that it was a good idea to have the luggage with them, too – they look like nothing more than two people waiting to get on a train, rather than two people waiting to shake someone down for information.

He doesn’t have any information on their target, doesn’t have a name or description, but he can tell the minute Montparnasse spots his contact because he tenses up, spine suddenly rigid. It’s only a moment, though, and barely perceptible.

Enjolras really wishes he’d stop being impressed by shit Montparnasse does. It’s like the man’s some sort of manic Doberman Pinscher that Enjolras watches do more and more new tricks.

“Do I even get to know who we’re going to be speaking with?” Enjolras asks.

Montparnasse says, “Why bother? You’ll know soon enough.” Still, he turns to look Enjolras directly in the eye, making sure he’s paying attention. “If this goes wrong, my phone should get you _somewhere_ , fuck if I know how far.”

Enjolras was expecting Montparnasse to say something about guarding his back, or telling him he should stay out of it, or _something_. Definitely something other than how to proceed if Montparnasse gets shot in the head. “You really do take your bargains seriously,” Enjolras says.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes, even including his neck like some overly melodramatic thirteen year old. It makes the strange not-quite-maturity feel even more bizarre. “You bought me enough shit yesterday that you get my end as fulfilled as possible, dead or not.”

“That’s almost noble of you,” Enjolras comments. There’s a strange glint in Montparnasse’s eyes, something like wariness. Enjolras frowns. “Well, almost.”

“Fuck off,” Montparnasse mutters, and turns away to walk towards the quickly-filling platform. It’s only because Enjolras is looking for it that he can see the knife held in his free hand. All of that manic energy has evaporated, because he does the same shift in movement that Grantaire does, goes from walking to that _prowl_ that really should be plenty of a warning for people. It stands out like a flashing red warning sign when someone’s on the hunt in a flood of tired commuters.

Enjolras yawns, and watches him quickly slide up next to a man. He’s wearing a tan coat and carrying nothing but a small briefcase, which doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem right at all. And from the set of Montparnasse’s shoulders, that same slight tightening, Montparnasse knows it too.

There’s probably seven seconds of conversation, and then Montparnasse jerks backwards. He manages to immediately maneuver himself and the man in the tan coat so that his suitcases stand awkwardly between their bodies, and Enjolras doesn’t doubt that it’s one of the things that save Montparnasse when the other man reaches into his coat. 

It’s the telltale reach of a man grabbing for a gun, and the oblivious crowd just naturally parts around them, only gives them curious glances. There are words quickly exchanged between them. Enjolras watches Montparnasse tense again, and the man suddenly twists towards him, sharply stabs at him over the suitcases. His arms aren’t long enough, but he still hits. What was meant to kill Montparnasse wounds him instead, just because of those fucking suitcases.

It’s like watching a slow-motion action sequence, watching the three-strike exchange. The man lunges towards him over the rust-colored bags, and Montparnasse twists to the side, but Enjolras can tell he’s been cut. It’s not dangerously deep, and it’s a slice into his left arm, one that probably saves him from being sliced deep across the chest.

The man tries to continue his attack, changes his grip so he’s ready to _stab_ , but Montparnasse gets a hand up in time to block him. He grabs the man’s wrist, and Enjolras can see his contact’s eyes squeeze shut and watch the knife fall from his fingers in a way that only happens when you can’t feel them anymore. The moment the man’s eyes are squeezed shut, biting his lip hard enough that even from here Enjolras can see blood, Montparnasse’s own knife comes into play.

It’s one single strike to the man’s side. The blade slides in all the way down to the hilt, stabbed in and pulled out expertly. Under the bright lights of Parte-Dieu, the metal goes from a bright silver shine to a dim red-streaked blade that Montparnasse quickly wipes on a handkerchief and drops both into one of his coat pockets.

The man’s own large tan coat covers the undoubtedly fatal wound, and it looks like nothing has happened at all when Montparnasse grabs his own suitcases with a barely-hidden wince and comes rolling directly towards Enjolras.

“Change of plans,” Montparnasse says, breathy, eyes overly bright in a way that tells Enjolras he must be in serious pain. He’s seen that look in the mirror, and on Grantaire’s face. Wheeling a suitcase around with a cut in your arm like that can’t be easy.

Enjolras glances back at the platform, where the man in the tan coat has sat himself down on a bench, listing to the side. “You want to tell me what the fuck just happened?”

“ _Things_ ,” Montparnasse bites out, obviously starting to lose his cool. When Enjolras sees the blood trickling down his arm, he decides he can excuse it. Injury in a knife fight is definitely extenuating circumstances. He probably gets hazard pay, too.

“Then tell me if someone’s about to start shooting at us,” Enjolras says. 

“Probably not,” Montparnasse says, which isn’t particularly reassuring, and keeps leading him through the train station. He looks paler and angrier by the second.

Enjolras is getting sick of watching Montparnasse pretend he isn’t gritting his teeth while he’s still wheeling that stupid fucking suitcase around with an injured arm, so he reaches out and snags the handle out from Montparnasse’s weakening grip. Montparnasse immediately twists and glares at him, tries to grab it back, but when his hand bumps against Enjolras’ knuckles, Montparnasse’s hand snaps away like he touched hot iron.

Medical care was Enjolras’ department in his partnership with Grantaire, and still continues to be. This is nothing like his partnership with Grantaire, _at all_ , but he still says, “You have to put something-”

“I _fucking_ know,” Montparnasse snaps. “Stop trying to babysit me.”

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. “Then-”

“ _Stop_ ,” Montparnasse repeats, close to shouting.

He doesn’t have time to say anything else, because Montparnasse swings them through a door in the wall that Enjolras hadn’t even noticed. It’s most likely a service entrance, since the white world of the train station has been replaced by cinderblocks and concrete with too-dim lights buzzing on the ceiling. Montparnasse _still_ isn’t done, because he keeps walking until he opens another door and slips inside. There’s an obvious moment of hesitance, but he lets Enjolras follow him in. 

Enjolras flicks the lights on, and they click the room into an unhealthy too-bright neon buzz. They’re in a run-down but serviceable handicapped-sized bathroom. Montparnasse shuts the door behind them with a firm kick, giving Enjolras a disapproving glance, and starts carefully stripping out of his coat and shirt. Even with his determination to pretend like he’s not in pain, he can’t stop himself from making a hissing pained noise when he removes the blood-soaked fabric from around his wound.

The cut is about the same length as Enjolras’ thumb, from tip to palm, but it was clean, and probably didn’t do any damage that could be permanent, beyond giving him a scar. If he treats it correctly, that is. He probably needs stitches.

When he reaches for the suitcase Enjolras commandeered and unzips it to get to the medical kit inside, Enjolras doesn’t have any doubts about why he actually got to come in.

He doesn’t offer to help, because Montparnasse has made it as clear as possible through body language that he would rather bleed to death. He just watches while Montparnasse sits down on the lid of the toilet and swipes gauze over the blood that didn’t get wiped into his shirt. He roughly rubs a disinfecting patch over the wound, and Enjolras watches him bite the side of his hand to keep from shouting.

Enjolras says, “If-”

“No,” Montparnasse says, voice rough but steady, and starts sorting through his medical kit.

With a sigh, Enjolras turns over one of the rolling suitcases (the clothing one, he’s pretty sure) and sits on top of it. He can be patient.

It must be the sigh that triggers it, or just the sight of Enjolras sitting there and watching as he cleans the wound, but something cracks inside of Montparnasse. That stony _fuck off, I’m fine_ attitude breaks apart, and he starts talking.

“Someone fucking sold me out, someone told Reichard I’m coming,” Montparnasse says, words almost a growl. 

Whether he really is this furious about being betrayed, or he just needs something other than pain to scream about, Enjolras can’t tell. Considering the hitch in his breathing and the unsteadiness of his words, Enjolras thinks he’s probably multitasking.

Montparnasse pulls the suture kit out of his very complete medical bag. He’s very well-equipped. “ _Two people_ know I’m out here, can’t fucking trust anybody, can you,” he bites out.

“Just let me do the stitches,” Enjolras says.

The glare Montparnasse shoots at him could make a rampaging elephant back off. He’s all bared teeth and bright green eyes, and Enjolras backs off. He watches Montparnasse snarl for a moment, but reason finally wins out.

“I would gain nothing from hurting you,” Enjolras tells him, steady and simple and as logically as possible. “It’s in my best interest to make sure your wound is treated and you’re healed as quickly as possible. You don’t trust me personally, and that’s fine. I’m not offended, and I never expected you to do otherwise. But you should be able to trust my complete dedication to getting to Grantaire and Reichard, and that means I need you, and that means your wellbeing is my concern.”

Montparnasse watches him, and it’s a look Enjolras has seen hints of before. It’s intelligent and calculating and very, very cautious. It’s the look of a wild animal deciding between trusting and attacking the hand held out to them.

Very, very carefully, Montparnasse hands over the kit.

“You actually know what you’re doing?” Montparnasse asks.

Enjolras nods, and moves closer, pulling the suitcase along with him so he can get a better position for stitching Montparnasse up. “Grantaire and I had a few jobs that went bad,” he says, and disinfects Montparnasse’s cut again. And again. Montparnasse keeps biting down on his own arm, and Enjolras doesn’t even try to tell him it’s okay to admit you’re in pain. “I got shot in China, and Grantaire has an infuriating habit of getting wounds like this one. They usually weren’t as clean as this, though. Whoever cut you was good. Did you know him?”

“Fuck no,” Montparnasse says, and even biting down on his arm, Montparnasse lets out a painful gasp when Enjolras gets to work. Which is fair. Fuck knows Enjolras would be vocal while someone stabbed a needle into his skin.

The one thing that Enjolras has always had skill with is words, and he knows his sutures could use some work. They’re better than anything Montparnasse could manage on his own arm, which is reassuring, but with his eyes squeezed shut in pain like this, Montparnasse looks very, very young. So, Enjolras talks to him.

“I never really expected to get into this line of work,” Enjolras says. “I suppose it’s one of those things people just fall in to. I wanted to make a difference in the world, wanted to _change it_. And there was no other way to do it, not to really do anything permanent. I tried other ways, but the people won’t rise up against those who oppress them, and when they do find the courage to try, it’s not enough. They fail. They die. So, I take the oppressors out. Cut off the head, and the body dies too. It’s not something I ever thought I’d do, but here I am.”

Montparnasse’s other arm is hanging at his side, mouth now tight but empty. “You don’t just fall into this,” Montparnasse says. “Doing this is a choice. Not always a pretty one, but it’s a choice.”

“Everyone has their own reason for it,” Enjolras agrees. “Not always as noble, of course, and at the core the jobs we took _were_ about the money, but our true cause was the motivation behind it.”

“Christ, just get off your fucking diamond pedestal for once,” Montparnasse says. “Nobility, cause, blah fucking blah, do you even _listen_ to yourself? Do you think I care? Do you actually _believe_ the shit coming out of your mouth? It’s about money, and murder. And that’s all.”

Enjolras tries to just concentrate on his work on Montparnasse’s arm more than Montparnasse’s words, cutting the final suture. He releases Montparnasse’s arm and says, “You’re right, it is about money and murder. But why you do it matters. Doing this work _just_ for money-”

“Don’t you _dare_ , rich boy,” Montparnasse spits out, so viciously that Enjolras jerks back and blinks at him. He doesn’t go far, though – Montparnasse grabs him by the collar, snarling. “Not everyone grew up in fucking _Versailles_ , some of us had to scrape by and find whatever work could keep us from starving to death.” 

Enjolras says, “I never-”

“ _Shut it_ ,” Montparnasse snaps. “Listen, you holier-than-thou asshole, I have two things going for me, my face and my temperament, and I picked the one that gives me fewer nightmares, and I am _not_ the only person who does it for the money. I murder people for the money. I do it for the money, because I got into this to fucking _survive_ , and you will _not_ preach me this higher cause bullshit or try to shame me for this.”

Montparnasse’s words are ruthless and unstoppable, now that he’s started. He’s probably been building to this ever since they met, and Enjolras tries to think back to how many times he might have unintentionally criticized Montparnasse for this, how many times his ignorance was a slap in the face of a desperate man.

“You aren’t better than me,” Montparnasse says. “You think you are, and you _wish_ you were, but you aren’t.”

Enjolras stares at him.

“And I’ve got a taste for it now, and I _know_ you do too,” Montparnasse says, and shakes him again, fingers tight on Enjolras’ collar. “Fuck, you think I couldn’t see how you wanted to get in on the action? You took my gun like you were starving for that feeling, and it feels _right_ , doesn’t it? Of course it does, because it _is_. You know deep down you aren’t a fucking _politician_ , it’s like pretending a hungry lion’s a house cat, you know what’s down there isn’t the least bit nice and you’re just killing yourself trying to deny it, aren’t you.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, instead watching Montparnasse and trying to decide what to do. Montparnasse is in physical pain, probably emotionally wounded from being betrayed in a situation Enjolras isn’t fully aware of, and Enjolras has clearly been unintentionally poking at an old wound that’s still tender after however many years. If a situation could make a person like Montparnasse snap, it would probably be this.

He tries very hard to keep that in mind, but it’s almost hypnotizing to watch Montparnasse explode like this. It’s a train wreck. It’s a tornado. It’s Montparnasse throwing himself off a cliff and not caring if he survives the fall.

“People tell you you’re wrong, you’re fucked up,” Montparnasse says. “But you’re not. You’re just _free_. Stop chaining yourself down for them. Be _you_. Change the world if you want, but stop playing by their rules.”

“And what, play by yours?” Enjolras asks, incredulous.

“They fit you better,” Montparnasse says.

“No,” Enjolras says, and glares at him. “ _Fuck_ no. Let go of me.”

“Not until you listen,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras grabs onto his wrist, but doesn’t want to hurt him. He’s well aware this isn’t exactly a Montparnasse capable of self-control he’s dealing with. Everyone has a breaking point, and this is Montparnasse shattering. Enjolras will deal with it.

“Let go,” Enjolras says, giving him one final warning.

Montparnasse leans forward, eyes bright like he has a fever, and says, “Make me.”

Enjolras obliges. He wrenches Montparnasse’s wrist backwards, hard enough to hurt for hours but not actually injure him. Montparnasse automatically releases Enjolras’ collar and makes a choking pained noise, jerking back, and Enjolras releases his hand immediately. 

Montparnasse cradles it for a shuddering moment, but soon enough he looks completely impassive, as if the pain isn’t even real.

“Are you feeling more like yourself now?” Enjolras asks, quickly losing his patience. 

Montparnasse doesn’t say a word.

He sighs. “I’m not going to betray you, and I’m not going to intentionally hurt you unless you do stupid shit like this again. I understand your point about why you’re in this business, and I won’t criticize you or anyone else for it. You proved your point. Let’s move on.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Montparnasse mutters. He’s very, very quiet.

It’s good enough for Enjolras, he’ll fix it later. He gets up and starts pacing, trying to think more clearly. “Tell me about the man you killed. Who hired him?” he asks.

Montparnasse leans against the back of the toilet, eyes squeezed shut as he lets the back of his head thunk against the wall. “Not sure. Could’ve _maybe_ been Reichard, but probably his boss,” he says.

Enjolras nods. He didn’t really expect anything else. “So if Reichard was his boss-”

“No, no, not the corpse’s boss,” Montparnasse says, waving his good hand (on his injured arm, won’t that be interesting) dismissively. “Reichard’s boss.”

Enjolras freezes. “You.” He has to pause. “Reichard’s _hired?_ He’s not-”

“He’s an organizer,” Montparnasse says slowly, waving a hand through the air like he’s explaining something to a toddler, eyes still shut. “Mastermind for hire. You give him a job, he does the work, you get the results. He’s good at his job, good to work with. _Usually._ ”

“Someone told Reichard to do all of this,” Enjolras says, and Montparnasse nods, opening his eyes to give Enjolras an eloquent _no shit_ expression. Enjolras starts pacing, clenches a hand in his hair, turns back to see Montparnasse’s bland expression. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!”

“Because I thought you knew!” Montparnasse says. “Besides, his contract’s over. Whatever he was hired to do, it’s done. Now it’s clean-up stage.”

“We’re clean-up,” Enjolras states, and waves a hand at…at _everything_ , at the hell his life has become, feeling oddly cold. “ _This_ is clean-up?”

“Why do you think I’m trying to get my payment?” Montparnasse asks, incredulous, like only a fool wouldn’t have realized this. And maybe it’s true. Maybe Enjolras should’ve known this all along. “His contract’s over, but Reichard didn’t give me my payment? Right? Obviously it’s over, Christ, aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius or some shit?”

“Fuck. _Fuck._ I have to – fuck,” Enjolras says, running a hand through his hair, and trying to calm down. He pulls his mystery phone out, ignoring the text he got at some point so he can scroll down to Combeferre’s name.

He answers immediately. “Enjolras?” he asks, and Combeferre sounds exhausted in a deep, dangerous way.

“Reichard has a boss,” Enjolras tells him. “I – apparently he’s a contractor or an organizer, a mastermind for hire or something, someone hired him for, fuck, I don’t know, the museum fire?” He glances over at Montparnasse, who shrugs in a dismissive _how should I know?_ way. “Montparnasse doesn’t know. _Apparently_ we were supposed to already know this. No idea who the employer is.”

There is a very long moment of silence.

“I have no idea what to do with this information,” Combeferre finally says.

“You’ll figure it out,” Enjolras says. It’s a fact. Combeferre can do anything.

“I will,” Combeferre says firmly. “Any other information?”

Enjolras isn’t sure how useful it is, but he still says, “Reichard’s employer is trying to kill Montparnasse.”

“Good,” Combeferre says. “It means he’s useful. Keep him close. You can keep hunting down Grantaire, but I might need you to change course to find Reichard. Or his boss.”

He knows that’s perfectly reasonable, but Enjolras can’t say _yes_ , can’t say _I will_.

Gently, Combeferre adds, “One leads to the other, remember?”

Enjolras nods, and takes a deep breath, thinks _focus_. He says, “I understand.”

“Alright, I have a lot to do. Call again if you have more information,” Combeferre says, and hangs up.

Enjolras sighs, and looks down at his phone, opening the text.

It reads, _B cd erdllin xtsddxx re err_.

“Well that’s helpful,” Enjolras mutters. Still, it was sent from Unknown Number, and the only unknown caller he’s had has been Grantaire. The thought makes him squeeze the phone tightly, look more closely at the gibberish.

“So what now?” Montparnasse asks, oddly quiet as the silence in the room stretches on.

Enjolras doesn’t reply, instead concentrating on the gibberish, and thinks, _What would Grantaire do?_

Grantaire is obviously in a bad place right now in every way there is. He was incredibly drunk when they last spoke, and as much as everything inside of Enjolras hurts to admit it, he’s probably even worse now. But that’s probably the reason he texted, too. And Enjolras doesn’t doubt it’s him, not with the letters at the end. He’s received enough drunken texts from Grantaire in his lifetime to recognize when he’s trying to punch an R in.

Enjolras keeps that in mind, and looks at the key swipe on his phone. Grantaire probably got _close_ , because Grantaire is incredibly dexterous. This level of gibberish in texting means he is drunk to the level of dangerous. If Enjolras looks at it from a vicinity-of-these-letters perspective, he’s pretty sure it’s supposed to say _Berlin_ followed by a lot of Xs for some reason – kisses? Maybe.

The train from Lyon to Berlin is a minimum of 17 hours, would take them right back to Paris to get on a transfer. 

But there’s a train leaving for Paris in twelve minutes. 

He can time it right. He could make it work. They can get there. It’ll take a while, but they can get there, and he can get there, and Grantaire will probably still be there. Probably. Fuck, he hopes Grantaire will still be there.

It’s the best lead he has.

He stows his phone in his pocket and turns to see a once again dressed Montparnasse in yet another outfit, although he looks five seconds from pouting about the old one. When he notices Enjolras is looking at him, Montparnasse raises his eyebrows, says, “Well?”

“We’re going to Berlin,” Enjolras says, and grabs two of the bags.

Montparnasse sighs, and follows.


	5. L'appartement de Combeferre - Palais Bourbon | Paris - Train à Berlin

Combeferre likes to think he’s self-aware. He likes to think he has control of himself, that he understands how he thinks and feels at any given moment. It’s all a matter of information. Knowing yourself is the first step to knowing anything else. Most of the time, if there’s a source of information, it has a bias. It’s his job to see beneath that bias.

Combeferre has a very definite bias when it comes to anything to do with Reichard.

He can’t remember ever loathing someone to this extent, to not sleeping because all he could do was think of Reichard’s amicable farewell. The entire conversation bites at his brain, makes him think about whether or not he’s actually, for the first time he can remember, outclassed. _Defeated._

He feels like he’s going to throw up.

Combeferre grabs onto the edge of his table, bends just enough to lightly set his forehead against the cold wood.

He can do this. He could hear it in Enjolras’ voice, that unshakable belief that _Combeferre can do anything_ , a sentiment he’s fought to be worthy of. Enjolras’ trust in him is awe-inspiring at times, and there’s some pressure, sometimes. Sometimes. He doesn’t let it get to him, because he believes just as completely in Enjolras and his drive to make the world better. It’s impossible to not believe in Enjolras. It’s a reciprocal relationship, he supposes, and Combeferre refuses to give it up. He refuses to _give up_.

Combeferre tries to shift how he’s approaching this. He stands up, and looks around his apartment. Every informant he has is incapable of telling him anything about Reichard, or where he is. And perhaps that’s because there’s nothing to know – maybe there _is_ no Reichard. 

No. The thought of Reichard being some fictional construction makes his stomach twist. No, there was a real man behind that phone call, real sentiment, real condescension and _disappointment_ and no, that’s not a lie. There’s a real Reichard. What else is real, Combeferre is still trying to figure out.

Methodical, he decides. He'll think it through the old-fashioned way. He grabs a piece of paper and a pen, and tries to think beyond Reichard and his emotions.

Reichard has an employer.

The employer will lead to Reichard.

 _And what is he employed to do, Combeferre?_ he asks himself, and tries to wipe away searching for Reichard, of everything he's learned. His _actions_ are the important part to concentrate on.

He burned down half of an art museum. Combeferre draws a circle, and writes it inside, at the very top. He stole Grantaire’s first painting of Enjolras. Combeferre writes that inside of the circle as well, at about 4:00. He faked Grantaire’s death. That goes at 8:00.

But did he really fake Grantaire’s death? Or was that just somehow incidental? It was a seemingly obvious conclusion for them to come to that Reichard didn’t explicitly plan for, but definitely wouldn’t say no to. That seems more…appropriate. More _Reichard_ , for some reason. A happy matter of conclusions and circumstance.

He crosses out _Faked Grantaire’s Death_ , and instead writes _convinced Grantaire to leave_. Then why burn down the museum? Perhaps that was what he was hired to do, and the painting and Grantaire were – no. That’s not right.

Combeferre rubs at his forehead and tries to let his mind make those intuitive _leaps_ , but he’s exhausted. He hasn’t slept in over a day, Courfeyrac keeps texting him and Combeferre keeps ignoring the messages, and he’s been delegating and demanding and dispersing information from the network he’s not-quite-maintained ever since their activities became political instead of militant.

Mostly, at least.

Well, they certainly try to behave, but there’s no keeping Enjolras from inciting riots. Even actively trying to behave, he ends up with hundreds following his every word. France is _obsessed_ with him, with Enjolras and Grantaire – and maybe that’s it? Combeferre leans back and rubs at his eyes, stretches just a little bit. It helps. He has to _think_. He returns to the first circle.

Remove museum. Remove painting. Remove Grantaire.

Remove _Enjolras_.

His hand is drawing a circle inside the other before he can even think beyond the leap. Remove Enjolras. Everyone knows that if Grantaire was gone, if Grantaire was _dead_ , Enjolras would be a wreck. It’s universally acknowledged that they have an incredibly fucked up codependency that the world romanticizes. There are _movies_. Plural. Get rid of Grantaire, get rid of Enjolras.

He was wrong about the museum – Reichard meant to fake his death.

With a sinking feeling, Combeferre realizes that he meant to fake Grantaire’s death, but he didn’t mean to do it very well.

This is what he was planning for. _This_ , exactly this, Enjolras running after Grantaire and Grantaire doing, what? Running away from Enjolras? Killing people? Why?

 _Focus_ , Combeferre reminds himself. This was his intended result, but why did he want this?

He wanted this because Enjolras is gone, completely indisposed, and entirely devoted to chasing after Grantaire.

Enjolras was always right about what would happen if he just accepted how in love with Grantaire he is, or how obsessed they are, or whatever the right word is. Combeferre let him make his own choices, because that’s what you’re meant to do. In the end, choosing Grantaire might have saved them all – if he hadn’t, who knows where they’d be now? But where they were partners before, they’re practically one unit now. Grantaire orbits him, and it keeps Enjolras steady, somehow.

God knows what Enjolras is like right now. Even on the phone, there’s something frazzled, distinctly _unhinged_. And it’s exactly what Reichard wants.

_Why?_

Or is it his employer that wants this? No, there’s something personal. Even if Combeferre doesn’t know what it is. There are much, much simpler nonlethal methods to remove Enjolras from the picture.

Combeferre discards that train of thought and looks back at the paper. Reichard was hired to remove Enjolras. It’s probably temporary. Why take the painting? No. Ignore the painting. What would someone need Enjolras removed for? It automatically removes a threat – Enjolras is a walking danger sign. But who would hire someone to go this far?

But this method of getting rid of Enjolras, everyone expects it. People doubt whether or not Grantaire is actually dead, but not a single soul on the planet is surprised that Enjolras is gone, or in seclusion, or whatever they’ve chosen to call it. It’s almost inconspicuous, hiding a goal to remove Enjolras behind something so catastrophic that nobody even wonders about his absence.

He’s absent from politics.

Combeferre can’t even bring himself to draw the circle. His hand clenches around the pen, and he knows it’s true, and – _politics?_ This comes down to fucking _politics?_

And Courfeyrac knew.

He’d said something about how weird or suspicious it was that Leclaire was pushing legislation through starting the morning of the fire, and he’s no fool. Leclaire hired Reichard to get rid of Enjolras, just so he could get a law passed without Enjolras there to burn it to the ground. And with parliamentary immunity, the only thing Combeferre can do is _request_ to report him. It would have to be approved, and it would be _slow_ , and Leclaire would have plenty of time to try and weasel his way out.

Combeferre hasn’t been this disgusted with someone in a very long time. It’s cowardice and desperation and a refusal to actually fight your own battles. If you can’t beat them, hire a mastermind to fake their husband’s death and make them so mad with grief that they can’t come effortlessly poke holes through your precious little law.

He picks up his phone, and calls Courfeyrac.

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac practically shouts, breathy, like he’s just run for the phone.

“I think I need to kill Leclaire,” Combeferre says. “You should convince me otherwise.”

“Look, that’s a little bit of an overreaction,” Courfeyrac says carefully. “I mean, we can still win this. He’s just bullying people at this point, we already practically have that on record for the Counsel of State – and oh man are they pissed off – but really, the minute we get Enjolras back-”

“Leclaire hired Reichard, just to get rid of Enjolras, for this exact reason,” Combeferre says. His rage feels like blood trapped behind a clot in his arteries, and he stands, grabs his keys and his coat and a couple of more _interesting_ things on his way out of his front door. “Fucking _Leclaire_ , Courfeyrac. That _coward_ -”

“Quiet for a moment,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre can’t hear what he’s doing, but he’s reassured by the tone. Courfeyrac has always been the one who can understand people, charm them in an entirely different way than Enjolras. Where Enjolras manages to be an awe-inspiring wildfire of passion, Courfeyrac is a warm reassuring hand going _no, come this way_. People follow him just because they can’t imagine doing anything else, because who wouldn’t want to?

Combeferre does as Courfeyrac asks, stays silent even as he walks out of his building and heads towards the nearest metro station. He’ll probably lose reception, but Combeferre isn’t going to hang up. Courfeyrac might suddenly need him to turn around and get something.

By the time Courfeyrac gets back on the phone, Combeferre has already transferred onto the 12th line. He cycles from no service to some service to none to perfect reception and then back to nothing in a matter of moments on the train, but when Courfeyrac finally returns, Combeferre can hear him crystal clear.

“Okay, he’ll be in Enjolras’ office when you get here,” Courfeyrac says.

“Don’t get caught,” Combeferre says. He knows he’s smiling, and knows Courfeyrac can hear it.

“As if I ever would,” Courfeyrac says, which is true. Out of the entirety of ABC, Courfeyrac is the one person who has never been detained by any form of police, in any country. He’s magical. “We’ll see you soon. Travel safe!”

Combeferre hangs up, and has to wonder for a moment how exactly someone like Courfeyrac can exist.

\---

The chairs in Enjolras’ office are intentionally uncomfortable, because if Enjolras can make someone squirm, he will.

Well, that’s not quite right. Enjolras’ swivel chair behind the desk is okay, and the ratty old chair in the corner that Grantaire picked out when Enjolras said he _must_ have a chair is deceptively comfortable, even if it looks like it’s about to fall apart. But every other chair that they expect visitors to sit in was most definitely not purchased for the comfort of whoever is put in one. They’re black plastic that looks like comfortable wood from a distance until you sit on wobbly legs and not-remotely-cushioned seats with a maximum weight capacity that leaves quite a few people ‘preferring to stand.’

Obviously, these aren’t very good to tie someone to, so seeing that Leclaire is actually tied to Enjolras’ chair isn’t a surprise.

Feuilly and Bahorel are guarding the door with the easy familiarity that comes from being partnered up in the field, looking like nothing more than a couple of friends having a conversation while they just happen to be leaning against the door. They let Combeferre through with a hard pat on the back from Bahorel and a _Just don’t kill him_ from Feuilly.

Inside, it’s Jehan and Eponine sitting on the floor, and Courfeyrac, sitting on top of the desk and casually swiveling the chair Leclaire’s tied to back and forth.

When Courfeyrac sees him, his entire body language shifts, rolls from tight and ready to act, to loose and _relieved_ , like Combeferre being here will make everything better. And there have been pieces of this in Courfeyrac before, but nothing ever like this. He worries about disappointing them, he worries about taking care of them, he just _worries_ , but Courfeyrac hasn’t ever relied on him like this. He’s a better leader than Combeferre could ever be, and Combeferre is going to find whatever has him wearing this _thank god you’re here_ expression and rip it out with his bare hands.

But now is not the time for that. Now is the time to get information.

“Leave, please,” he says quietly, and that’s all it takes. Jehan and Eponine just stand up and walk out, because Combeferre wants as few people in this room as possible. Courfeyrac won’t leave because Courfeyrac would _worry_ , and Combeferre gave up long ago on ever changing his mind.

Leclaire is practically the antithesis of Enjolras. He’s sixty-four and looks great for his age, overweight in the way that seems almost expected for anyone over the age of forty, but carries it with such an air of a casual confidence that it’s often completely ignored. Leclaire is a bully, with an elegant mind that somehow thinks that shoving people into the political corners he wants is the best tactic there could ever be. But he has _experience_ with the system, and it’s an advantage that ABC and Enjolras’ first month or two of floundering made abundantly clear.

Leclaire isn’t arrogant so much as he’s used to getting his way. He’s spoiled, and just like any spoiled brat, he threw a tantrum when he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

And, like many spoiled brats eventually discover, tantrums have consequences.

“There’s not much point in asking you questions, since I already know everything,” Combeferre says simply, and doesn’t care if the faux-wood chairs are painfully uncomfortable. He pulls one close to Leclaire, and sits, looking him in the eye. “This is an arena you shouldn’t have stepped into. I don’t know why this will probably come as a surprise to you, because _anyone_ could tell you this, but Enjolras is probably going to kill you.”

Leclaire’s eyes go wide, as if he really _hadn’t_ realized this, and Combeferre has to sigh and fight the urge to roll his eyes because, really? _Really?_

“Oh my god, what did you think he would do, send you a strongly-worded letter?” Courfeyrac asks, just as disbelieving as Combeferre. “He’s not _reformed_ , he’s just been…fuck, what’s the word for it?”

“Behaving,” Combeferre states, and shakes his head. “He’s not going to behave after this. Courfeyrac, cut the gag.”

He obliges, slicing through Leclaire’s nice green tie which they utilized as a gag. Because Leclaire is smart, he doesn’t speak.

“Now, you have only one way to save yourself, and even then, it might not work. You dug your own grave, and god knows that if Enjolras doesn’t come after you, Grantaire probably will. There’s nothing I can do about Grantaire, and there’s nothing _Enjolras_ will do about Grantaire, so you’re on your own there. But that’s what happens if I tell them,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac frowns at him, a nonverbal _what are you planning?_ that he wisely doesn’t say aloud. He trusts Combeferre enough to let him keep going without comment.

“I want to know about the man you hired,” Combeferre says. “I want to know what he wants, and how you found him. I want his name. I want his billing address. I want every single detail you can give me.”

Leclaire says, “There’s no physical harm. I told him not to hurt them-”

“Honestly, that would’ve been better than what you did,” Courfeyrac says honestly. Which is true, now that Combeferre thinks about it. Put Grantaire in the hospital, and Enjolras would be just as indisposed as he is now. Make it look like an accident, make it happen after they’ve had another loud and vicious argument, and there wouldn’t be any questions. Enjolras would blame himself, and Grantaire would blame himself, and nobody would think of Leclaire.

Reichard wants to _hurt_ them. He wants to hurt them, and he wants to do it _deeply_.

No. Reichard doesn’t just want to hurt them. He wants to _break them._

“Give me Reichard, and when you run, I won’t hunt you down,” Combeferre says simply, and tries to not let the realization of Reichard's real goal show on his face. Considering the fact Leclaire has the same anxious wariness, it works. But, Courfeyrac looks worried. So it worked, but not enough. Not quite. He tries to concentrate on the task at hand, gets his mind back on track. “Enjolras might find you, and he might not. This is probably your only chance to survive.”

Leclaire is a smart man, so he says, “I didn’t think of it at first. I just had a problem, and wanted it removed. I would only need a few days to get the law passed – I kept everything very quiet. It’s been through the committees, it’s been-”

“I know that, and I don’t care,” Combeferre says. “This isn’t about _politics_ , Leclaire, it’s about people getting shot in the head and burning to death inside of a museum full of priceless artwork.”

Leclaire’s expression hardens, and he actually nods, as if he miraculously understands. Then again, maybe he does. He’s a smart man. That, Combeferre has never doubted. He’s just smart in a way that doesn’t extend to what Combeferre does.

Leclaire knows bargains and deals and _you scratch my back_ methods.

Combeferre understands the value of a problem becoming a dead body. The only issues a corpse can cause are revenge, investigations, and the price of a bouquet of condolence flowers at the funeral.

He can see the moment Leclaire realizes this, because he actually tries to lean back, away from Combeferre.

“Tell me about Reichard,” Combeferre says again.

“I didn’t go looking for this sort of service,” Leclaire says. “I just made it known that I’d appreciate it if Enjolras went away for a while, and then he showed up. He said he could fix my problem for the right price, and-”

“ _He_ came to _you_ ,” Combeferre says, for clarification.

There’s something else here. There’s something _personal_ here.

Leclaire nods. “We discussed, and it was a considerable amount of money, but he guaranteed there’d be no physical harm, no legal consequences for me, and there was a chance he might never be a probl-”

He doesn’t have time to get the word out, because Combeferre grabs him by the ropes around his chest, lifts him forward so that the chair is barely balancing on a single wheel, wants to be looking him straight in the eye. “That better not mean what I think it means,” he says.

“No, no no no, he wouldn’t kill Enjolras, he swore no physical harm,” Leclaire says quickly, because he is a very smart man, for someone this fucking stupid. “He won’t kill Enjolras.”

“And Grantaire?” Combeferre asks.

Leclaire is silent, eyes wide and terrified and completely empty of any information.

“You didn’t even ask, did you. It didn’t even _occur_ to you,” Combeferre says. He bites the words out, and stands up, steps away to tip him forward. The only thing keeping him from falling straight onto the ground is Combeferre’s hand keeping him very carefully balanced. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved in this sort of work, Leclaire. You’re too inexperienced to be dealing with someone like Reichard. You’re too fucking _stupid_ to deal with him. Tell me about him.”

“Oh Jesus,” Leclaire says. “I don’t – what do you want from me? He lives in Warsaw, goes by Reichard Loudin-”

“Say that again,” Combeferre says, because he has to be sure. He tilts Leclaire back into a more reasonable sitting position, grabs his hair to make sure his head doesn’t move a hair’s breadth away from where he wants Leclaire’s eyes. “Say his name again.”

“Reichard Loudin,” Leclaire repeats obediently, absolutely terrified.

The name’s familiar. Combeferre steps back from Leclaire. He sits back down in the uncomfortable chair and tries to think back, tries to think past the _Reichard_ and focus on the _Loudin_ , and when it comes to him, he takes a very long, very controlled breath. Inhale, hold it in, feel the air deep in the lungs, exhale, long and slow.

“You are a very, very stupid man,” Combeferre says, and pulls out a knife from his coat.

Leclaire immediately starts to babble, but Combeferre ignores him in favor of cutting the ropes off of him. The terrified flood of words tapers off, until he’s completely silent when Combeferre removes the final rope.

“Give me his phone,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac immediately does so, and there it is. The contact information is right there, sitting politely under _Reichard Loudin_ with a number different than the one Combeferre had previously.

This is going to get very, very messy.

“Okay, Leclaire, here’s how it’s going to work. You disappear. You take nothing, you tell nobody, you get out of Paris, and you run,” Combeferre says. “That gives you a chance to survive, because if I know Enjolras – and I _do_ – you are going to be hunted down and killed in a very angry and brutal way for what you’re subjecting Grantaire to right now.”

He can tell Leclaire has questions, has concerns, has a thousand things he wants to ask. Instead, he nods, and stands up on shaky, awkward legs. “I can just go?” he asks.

“Get out,” Combeferre says, and doesn’t even bother to watch him walk out the door. He listens for it, though, and looks up at Courfeyrac. “Enjolras and Grantaire met by killing Reichard’s son, Jean-Auguste Loudin.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac says.

“Indeed,” Combeferre agrees, and tucks Leclaire’s phone into his coat pocket. He pulls his own out and dials Enjolras’ mystery phone, but it goes directly to _the number you have dialed is unavailable_. Combeferre sighs. He’ll try again later. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Are you really going to let him go like this?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Of course I’m not, I just need him out of the way for now,” Combeferre says, and groans. “I need a _lot_ of things out of the way.”

Courfeyrac smiles, and he’s obviously trying for Combeferre. He's trying to look like there’s nothing wrong. It hurts to see the tense lines around his smile, but Combeferre is grateful, even with the sharp pinprick of guilt in his heart. But Courfeyrac stretches, and smiles. “You’ll figure it out.”

Reichard just sent him on a task that did nothing but give him a name and motivation, as if he was intentionally sharing the information. He must have known Combeferre wouldn’t even need to break Leclaire, he’d just _talk_.

Reichard isn’t a fool.

 _This is exactly what he wants_ , Combeferre thinks. He shuts his eyes tightly.

Courfeyrac slides off of the desk and pulls Combeferre into a hug, presses a small kiss to his temple. Combeferre can’t bring himself to hug back, for some reason.

“You’ll figure it out, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says again, completely confident.

For the first time, Combeferre isn’t so sure.

\---

“Stop it,” Enjolras says.

“I’m not doing anything,” Montparnasse says.

“Yes you are,” Enjolras says.

“No I’m not,” Montparnasse says.

“Yes you _are_ , you’ve been popping your fucking gum for half an hour-”

“Have not,” Montparnasse says.

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” Enjolras says.

Montparnasse grins at him, and says, “You’d try.”

Enjolras can’t creep up on people like Grantaire and is becoming more and more aware of how out of practice he is, but he glares at Montparnasse. “Oh, I definitely would,” he says.

Montparnasse looks almost pleased. He leans back in his seat in their compartment. It’s a small one, nothing but two seats facing each other, but it’s not rows and an aisle and small tight seats and yes, Enjolras is much happier with having to stare at Montparnasse for two hours. Besides, it’s not like he can’t afford a compartment.

He’s purchased tickets for the train to Berlin, which they’ll have thirty minutes to get to, at the most. At least, that’s how long they have if the trains are on time. Either way, it’ll be interesting trying to get there on time. Montparnasse is still careful using his sliced-and-sewn arm, which is very reasonable, but it means they might be slower. Still, they can get there. He’s sure they can make it.

“You know, you’re not what I expected,” Montparnasse says, words curving around the piece of gum he’s still chewing. It’s more quiet now, though, not intentionally obnoxious. Enjolras doesn’t think for a second that he stopped because of Enjolras’ threat. Not the action he’s threatening Montparnasse with, at least. He just wanted Enjolras to issue one.

Enjolras shouldn’t encourage him, but he doesn’t have much else to do. “What did you expect?” he asks.

“Someone boring,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras frowns. “Are you trying to compliment me?”

Montparnasse shrugs, and turns to look out of the window, just quietly chewing gum and being surprisingly polite, for Montparnasse.

Enjolras tries to think back through social etiquette, but none of it really fits, so he decides to go with reciprocity. Good behavior should be encouraged, after all.

“You said you only have - how’d you put it? Your face and your temperament. But you should know you’re also very good at what you do. Being fair and knowledgeable in your field of work is something you should be proud of,” Enjolras says honestly.

And he’s obviously not saying it right, since Montparnasse just goes more and more rigid. He hasn’t had to really do interpersonal communication much for the past two years that hasn’t been business-related, or political, or press, or something there are set guidelines. Trying to talk to Montparnasse as a _person_ is incredibly frustrating.

“You aren’t a good person, but you are one I can respect,” Enjolras says.

“Stop it,” Montparnasse says. “ _Stop_. Stop talking.”

Enjolras stops. He means to wait Montparnasse out, but the train begins to slow to the point of almost coasting, and he looks out the window to see Paris. There’s a strange _relief_ at the sight of home, but it’s twisted with an anxiety and bitterness, because Grantaire isn’t here. They’re near the train car’s door, though, and all they have to do is get to Gare de l’Est in time. That’s all they have to do. Enjolras bought their tickets already, and he knows Paris well enough to get them there in time.

“Just follow me, we’ll get there in time,” Enjolras says, just in case there’s a potential misunderstanding.

Montparnasse just nods, watching the station slide along next to them. Enjolras pulls all four bags down, since Montparnasse shouldn’t be yanking anything from above his head with his arm injured. It makes Montparnasse mutter about how he isn’t a _baby_ , but he doesn’t object beyond that.

When they get off of the train and onto the platform, Enjolras nearly runs right into a pole because Gavroche is standing almost directly in front of them, waiting nonchalantly.

Enjolras is only surprised by the fact Gavroche didn't jump out at them from nowhere.

Gavroche points directly at Montparnasse. “You swear you won’t hurt Grantaire,” he says.

Enjolras feels every muscle in his body freeze, because he's a fool. Somehow, that possibility had never occurred to him. He’d just never even imagined it. He doesn’t trust Montparnasse, but he trusts his professionalism – is that something that would extend to Grantaire? Does Gavroche know something he doesn’t? Does Gavroche know something he doesn’t think Enjolras should?

He’s never understood Gavroche. They’ve known each other for almost six years now. They met before ABC was ABC, back when they were just a group of friends with a shared cause. His friends were naïve, and Enjolras was the worst of them all with his blind idealism. Gavroche had been the only bit of real-world understanding, aside from Feuilly, who always waved off any questions about his life beyond the present. He doesn’t understand how Gavroche can be who he is, or know what he knows, or do what he does.

He doesn’t understand Gavroche, but he certainly understands that Gavroche will always know things that Enjolras doesn’t.

Enjolras glances between Gavroche and Montparnasse as they watch each other. He expects some sort of disdainful comment from Montparnasse, but his expression and body language is more respectful to Gavroche than it _ever_ is to Enjolras. He looks like he’s standing at attention, but with just enough of a relaxed arm that he could reach for a weapon if he needed to.

Meanwhile, Gavroche looks like he’s dealing with a petulant child.

“I won’t start something,” Montparnasse finally says. “He comes at me, I’m fighting back.”

“Not too hard back,” Gavroche says.

“Just hard enough,” Montparnasse says, and it sounds like some sort of counter-argument that is so completely ineloquent that Enjolras isn’t quite sure what they actually said.

Still, it seems to grudgingly satisfy Gavroche, who nods, even if he doesn’t look happy about it. He then points at Enjolras, even if he’s still looking at Montparnasse. This time, there’s not even any conversation. Gavroche raises his eyebrows, and Montparnasse says, “Oh _fuck off_ ,” and that seems to be the end of it.

“Stay sharp. I’ve got a kid by the door for you, seemed good to do. Get him home safe,” Gavroche says, this time to Enjolras, and then walks off. It’s impossible to watch him the moment he gets into the crowd. That, at least, Enjolras is used to.

Enjolras isn’t sure what any of that meant, or what even just happened, but when they start walking (awkwardly, because Montparnasse seems to be sulking, or something like it) out of the station, the distinctive ring of a bike's bell gets his attention.

“Bike taxi, or something,” a young voice calls out, and Montparnasse immediately swerves that way, so Enjolras follows. There’s a pedicab sitting on the sidewalk, with an owner who has to be twelve, at the oldest. Still, Montparnasse immediately starts hoisting their luggage into it (with a wince that doesn’t go unnoticed) and then puts himself in, giving Enjolras an expectant look.

Enjolras frowns at the kid. “Are you sure you can pull all of this?”

The kid makes a very rude gesture. “Gavroche said take you, so I’m taking you, now get in.”

Gavroche has very, very mysterious ways.

Enjolras _hates_ mysterious ways.

He gets in and warily sits down next to Montparnasse, and that’s all the time he has until the kid starts pedaling. He goes _fast_. When they turn down streets and swerve past obstacles, Enjolras ends up grabbing at the side of the cart, eyes wide.

Enjolras can definitely see why the kid was offended. Enjolras can’t remember ever getting through Paris this quickly in his entire life.

By the time they get to Gare de l’Est, they’ll have seven minutes to get on their train.

Strangely, it’s Montparnasse who pays the kid when he pulls to a stop in front of the station.

Their train is a sleeper train, which seems sort of ridiculous at 11AM, but it’s a 20 hour trip. Enjolras just hopes Grantaire will be okay for that long. He desperately hopes that if Grantaire really does need something, he’ll call, and he’ll let Enjolras try to help. He hopes Grantaire will be waiting at the station like Gavroche was and it’ll all be simple, and beautiful, and he can take care of Grantaire and then they’ll figure out Reichard after Grantaire is safe and happy and home with him.

It won’t happen, but Enjolras lets himself hope.

They dump their suitcases in their cabin, and immediately, Montparnasse says, “I’ll be around.”

The sudden burst of independence is unexpected, to say the least. Enjolras has no idea what’s going through Montparnasse's mind, so he says, “Okay?”

Montparnasse just nods and walks out of the door. The train has barely started moving, and he’s already made himself scarce, leaving Enjolras by himself.

It’s very, very strange to be sitting alone in the compartment.

It’s strange to be _alone_.

There are plenty of reasons why feeling so unsettled by this is ridiculous. He’s a grown man, he can deal with being alone for a moment. He can just read, and fuck knows he doesn’t have much time to do that these days, it’d be good for him. 

Except he doesn’t have a book, because he doesn’t have his own things.

He doesn’t have his own clothes. He doesn’t have his own phone – and he checks it, only to be completely unsurprised to see he has no service here. There’s nothing to spend time with except his own thoughts and the city quickly moving past the train window.

And he’s fine.

Enjolras stands up, looks around the cabin which is completely standard, there’s nothing new, nothing interesting, and he’s fine.

The small mirror in the cabin makes it unavoidably clear that Enjolras is lying to himself.

He hasn’t slept, he’s wearing bizarre clothing that don’t feel like his own and fit in a way he isn’t used to, and there’s no sound in the rest of the cabin. There's nothing the sound of the train. When Enjolras looks intently in the mirror, really lets himself look, he barely recognizes the man looking back at him.

 _You look scared_ , his mind points out with a dark sense of glee, and it sounds suspiciously like Montparnasse.

Enjolras quickly twists away from the mirror and grabs his phone – except it isn’t _his_ phone, is it. He doesn’t have anything. He doesn’t own anything here. He doesn’t _control_ anything, everything that’s happened is a frantic journey towards Grantaire that doesn’t ever seem to go anywhere and Grantaire won’t listen, Grantaire won’t come back to him. And that’s all it would require, isn’t it? He just needs Grantaire to stop and do what he says, needs him to stop and _obey_ but it would never happen. Grantaire doesn’t obey. He chooses to obey, sometimes, but that’s all.

He tried it already, over and over again, but fuck, what does he have to lose? Enjolras sits down on the bench seat that tucks down into a bed and goes to the previous callers stored in the fake phone, right to the _Unknown Caller_. It’ll do the same thing it always does, of course, but he tries it anyway, and calls.

It rings twice.

And then he hears it connect, hears, “Hello?”

It’s breathy. It’s light, and confused, in a simple and unconcerned way. It’s Grantaire.

_It’s Grantaire._

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, and sags back against the seat. It’ll be okay now. He can make it okay.

There’s an absolutely _delighted_ gasp on the other end. “Enjolras!” Grantaire says. Enjolras is reminded of people thrilled at the contents of an unexpected present. “Oh, Enjolras, hello. Fuck. Hello. I’m sorry. How angry at me are you?”

He sounds completely giddy and not at all like Grantaire.

No, that’s not true. He sounds completely like Grantaire. It’s just been a very long time since Enjolras heard him when he’s high.

“I’m not angry with you,” Enjolras says, as calmly as he possibly can, because fuck, _fuck_ , he wants to smash things, he wants to scream, he wants to shout at Grantaire and he wants to take care of Grantaire and he wants to find Reichard and kill him and he wants to curl around Grantaire and hold him and make everything okay. “Where are you?”

“I miss you,” Grantaire says. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. And – I didn’t mean to. Not. I was scared, I think. I didn’t mean to, though. I feel bad about it.”

Whatever he’s apologizing for and whatever he feels bad about are two very different things, and it’s been _years_ , it’s been what, three years? Four? Enjolras grabs one of the pillows the train provides and tries to strangle it with one hand.

He keeps his voice very calm, keeps his _everything_ as calm as possible, because Grantaire is unpredictable when he’s high, to say the least. Enjolras has felt threatened exactly two times in the entire time he’s known Grantaire, and one of those times wasn’t exactly feeling _threatened_. It was more like horrified and desperate and completely in shock as Grantaire stabbed a knife through a door close enough to slice some of his hair off.

The second time, Grantaire had a cocktail of who the fuck knows what tumbling through his veins.

“Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it,” Enjolras says instead. It’s a nice simple statement, and it’ll pull him back, maybe. Possibly. Fuck, he hopes it does. He tries again. “Where are you, Grantaire?”

“Some bathroom,” Grantaire says dismissively, and Enjolras hears him shift, although he doesn’t know what he’s doing beyond that. He sighs, wistful, and there’s a crackling noise on the other end. Enjolras has no idea what it is. “I miss you.”

“You sent me a message to come to Berlin,” Enjolras says. “I’m on my way.”

“I did that? Huh,” Grantaire says. “That was probably smart. I’m not – well no, you shouldn’t worry, you should never have to worry about me. You know? You don’t deserve to worry about me.”

Enjolras knows that doesn’t mean what it sounds like, or that Grantaire doesn’t mean it like that. Enjolras agrees anyway. “What’s wrong?” he asks carefully.

Grantaire hums for a moment. It’s not a good hum – it’s a confused _do I want to tell him this?_ sort of hum that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, to say the least. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says firmly. He fights to keep from snapping. He can do this.

“So I might be in here for a reason,” Grantaire says, and there’s a moment of shifting again. “I mean, it’s a nice bathroom – you’d like it. Good shower. And I do kind of feel ready to throw up, you know? But it’s kind of a mess. I’m not sure.”

Enjolras needs to know exactly what kind of _mess_ he’s talking about - Paint? People? Drugs? Alcohol? Corpses? – but he has to be very careful with Grantaire. He could hang up. He could destroy the phone. He could hurt himself. Grantaire could hurt himself in so many ways.

So, Enjolras says, “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“Think I’ve been here before,” Grantaire comments. “Or maybe not. Hey. Do you really have – no, sorry. That’s your business. I’m sorry.”

“My business is your business,” Enjolras says firmly. “We’re partners. We’re-”

“We’re _married_ ,” Grantaire says, and there’s mockery in the words. “Married. Because that gives you so many excuses. So fucking _sacred_ , you think, but it’s a load of shit, Enjolras, what does it mean but a different tax form?”

Enjolras sighs, and tries to ignore it. Grantaire is obviously out of his mind. “Can you do something for me?” he asks.

“No,” Grantaire says, and _fuck_ , he’s getting angry. Enjolras doesn’t know how to help or fix it, never did – he never had to learn. “No, I can’t fucking do something for you, Enjolras, I can’t do anything, _period_. I’m a car crash.”

“You’re not a car crash,” Enjolras says.

“Hmm, not a high enough body count,” Grantaire says, as if there was never any other way to interpret Enjolras' words.

Enjolras barely keeps down the urge to scream at him, and says, “You’re not any kind of wreck, Grantaire.”

He doesn’t have time to say anything else, because Grantaire laughs, loud and bitter, and fuck, _fuck_ , Grantaire sounds like he’s starting to cry, this isn’t good. This isn’t good. Now, Enjolras isn’t strangling the pillow so much as holding it tightly against his chest.

“I think it’d be nice if I didn’t care, but I can’t stop caring, I can’t stop _loving you_ , and you don’t deserve it,” Grantaire says. “I thought, you know? I thought. I thought maybe it could stop.”

Enjolras has little to no clue what he’s talking about anymore, because it isn’t about being in love. It definitely isn’t. It’s something about not feeling worthy, or something about - _fuck_ , Enjolras doesn’t know, he can’t figure it out. He squeezes his eyes shut, and he has a choice. He can try to figure out how to help Grantaire as much as he can right now, or he can try to find out where the fuck he is and help him in person.

Right now, Enjolras could have any and all efforts to help him go nowhere if he says one word wrong and Grantaire chooses to hang up on him.

If there is exactly one thing Enjolras knows, it’s words.

“You’re on the floor in a bathroom, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and makes it cold and hard, tries to forge some sort of inescapable steel pathway to guide Grantaire down. “That’s not the place to make life choices.”

Grantaire laughs, and even though it’s very definitely not a good laugh and sounds more like choked off gasps, like someone’s strangling him, it’s _something_. “You’re so fucking cruel, you know?” Grantaire says.

“I’m what I need to be,” Enjolras says. “There’s a shower. Is it safe to get inside?”

“Well, the blood isn’t in here,” Grantaire says, and fuck, that is _not_ good. That is so incredibly not good. But. There’s something good, he can find something good about this. It’s good that Grantaire is actually listening. Enjolras tries to focus on that instead. 

He tries to think back to those horrifying early days of a Grantaire who didn’t _hesitate_ like he does when he isn’t high, tries to remember what worked and what didn’t.

He mostly remembers things not working.

There were a lot of things that didn’t work.

Grantaire has been clean ever since he got hyped up on some drug or another (or several) and punched Enjolras. It was a nasty affair, and Enjolras knows now that he’d pushed buttons that he wouldn’t even know existed until years later, but that didn’t excuse it. They’d both just stood there staring at each other for a long, long time, with Enjolras’ cheek already starting to bruise and his entire face aching, and finally, Grantaire had just…dropped. He fell to his knees, slumped against the floor, staring straight into Enjolras’ stunned eyes.

“I didn’t mean to,” he’d whispered. “I didn’t – I would _never_ , I didn’t-”

And Enjolras had immediately grabbed the nearest blanket and gone to his knees right in front of Grantaire, draping the blanket around his shoulders. He’d been shaking, then. It was shock, Enjolras had decided, and who the fuck knows what’s going through Grantaire’s mind when he’s high? Enjolras doesn’t even know what his drug of choice is – he hadn’t thought it was his place to ask then, and it was never an issue after that incident. 

Enjolras had stayed up and watched Grantaire fall asleep on the floor, just in case _something_ happened. It was early into their partnership. It was very, very early. Enjolras hadn’t understood the bizarre blend of resilience and scar tissue inside of Grantaire, how he has some sort of primal need to hate himself sometimes. 

He watched Grantaire overnight in case he had whatever might happen with shock – seizures? Fevers? How should Enjolras have known, he wasn’t a fucking medic – and the only thing that happened was that in the morning Grantaire had reached towards the bruise on Enjolras' cheek. It was for barely a moment, and Grantaire pulled his hand back immediately. For the rest of the job, he was sensible and reasonable and even _helpful_ , completely invaluable, and they never said a word about it.

Enjolras never said a word about it, not even when he had a huge purple bruise on the side of his face that carefully migrated into becoming a black eye. Grantaire didn’t say anything either. He just stared at the bruise, sometimes, and was clean from then on.

Until now.

Clearly, Enjolras just needs to be there so Grantaire can be sure he won’t punch anyone he loves in the face again.

So, he tells Grantaire, “Get in the shower and clean up. Do you know where you are outside of the bathroom?”

“Not really,” Grantaire says, not particularly bothered about it. “You know, I was thinking, I mean, a while ago, I was thinking we should just. _Go somewhere_. But that won’t happen.”

“Yes it will,” Enjolras says. “I’m coming to get you.”

“I’m not a fucking princess in a tower or – is that how it goes?” Grantaire laughs, and there’s a breathy huff of air as he exhales. He’s smoking, Enjolras is fairly certain, but there’s something else going on. “You’re going to just bust in and save me from my sins, some sort of fucked up murdering priest husband. See, you do this thing sometimes. I don’t think you know you do it, you just kind of do this movie star thing. You’ve always done it. I can’t decide if it’s adorable or sexy or makes me want to tell you you’re a fucking idiot. Sometimes I hate you so much.”

“I know that,” Enjolras says, and he has no clue what movie star thing he’s talking about, but he barely understands half of the shit Grantaire’s saying. “Are you in the shower?”

“Why? I’m supposed to be?” Grantaire asks.

“Yes you are,” Enjolras says, and tries to be patient. “Get in the shower and turn the water on and clean up.”

“It’s not _that_ much blood,” Grantaire grumbles, and Enjolras is going to _scream_ , because he knows there’s no way he is going to get a straight answer out of Grantaire right now.

“Just get in the shower, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and it is incredibly important for him to shower, it is horrifically important for him to get _blood off of himself_.

Grantaire lets out a long annoyed sigh and says, “ _Fine_.”

And then he hangs up.

He _hangs up_.

Enjolras listens to dial tone and doesn't panic.

He does _not_ panic.

It makes sense, sort of. There is a sense of logic to the action. A phone isn’t waterproof, water is involved in showers, even when high, Grantaire would probably know this, there’s nothing wrong with taking steps to avoid that. And that means he’s probably currently in the shower and therefore wouldn’t pick up if Enjolras called again. So he should wait. Or maybe Grantaire will call him back. Or maybe – _fuck_ , he’s panicking. He breathes. Enjolras doesn’t have time to panic. He’ll just wait it out. He can do that. Enjolras can wait this out.

So, he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

When almost an hour has dragged past, Enjolras gives in and dials again, but it just rings. There’s no answer.

There’s no Grantaire.

He spends the next two hours calling Grantaire’s _Unknown Caller_ and hearing nothing but dial tone.

He rips the train pillow to shreds, and tries to keep breathing.


	6. Train à Berlin - Berlin | Musain

It takes seven hours and forty two minutes for Montparnasse to come back to the compartment, two sandwiches in one hand while he slides the compartment’s door open with the other.

“Got dinner, I guessed on yours but figured – holy fucking shit,” Montparnasse says when he actually gets a look inside. “Did a bomb go off?”

Enjolras is sitting on the floor of the compartment with Montparnasse’s weapons case open and is in the middle of cleaning one of the .45s, the remains of his pillow scattered across the compartment along with the other weapons he’s cleaned and set on every readily available surface. Enjolras doesn’t know what he looks like, but Montparnasse spends a good thirty seconds looking at him when he’s finished gaping at the compartment.

“The fuck?” Montparnasse says, and steps inside, hopping over a disassembled rifle. He doesn’t have to jump, it could easily just be stepped over. He’s just weird. And jumpy. He frowns at Enjolras. “You’re not explaining.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Enjolras says simply, and goes back to cleaning.

“’Kay,” Montparnasse says, and crouches in front of Enjolras. “You eaten anything?”

Enjolras can’t remember.

He looks up from the gun and cloth, and right into Montparnasse’s green eyes. He looks worried, and careful. Or that’s what Enjolras thinks. He’s hard to read more often than not, and Enjolras knows he’s not at his best right now.

Enjolras clears his throat and quickly shakes his head, tries to focus on the fact he’s having a conversation. “Where did you go?” he asks.

Montparnasse quirks an eyebrow up, and there’s something that’s not quite a smirk on his lips. He plucks one of the sandwiches out of his hand and puts it down next to the gun. “Dinner. It’s about 7PM. Did you fuck with the smaller bag?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I haven’t gotten to it yet,” he says.

“Never get to it,” Montparnasse says. “It goes boom.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “What? You – are you carrying a _bomb_ with you everywhere?”

Montparnasse just shrugs and stands, moving away from Enjolras with careful steps around the weaponry. He reaches up and easily pulls down the second bed in the compartment, and hops up onto it with his own sandwich. “Be prepared, you know?” he says. Even stretched out on top of the bed, his head and arms are still dangling in the air. He’s looking straight at Enjolras. “Eat your sandwich.”

It’s a reasonable thing to do. Enjolras stretches his back out with a groan and stands up, washing the oil and grease off of his fingers in the small sink. “What kind of sandwich is it?”

“Overpriced, that’s what it is,” Montparnasse says. “These are going on the invoice.”

Enjolras huffs out something like a laugh. “I trust my finances to Combeferre, you should submit it to him,” he says, and unwraps his sandwich. It’s turkey and Swiss cheese with some tomato and lettuce, which he is more than happy to bite in to. Montparnasse watches him chew like it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever seen. When Enjolras has swallowed, he frowns. “What?”

Montparnasse pulls himself back up onto the bunk, opening his own sandwich. “Takes four muscles in your jaw to chew,” Montparnasse says. “Fifty or something to swallow.”

And what the fuck does that mean?

He’s quickly becoming resigned to the fact Montparnasse has an unknowable train of thought, or sees things in some bizarre way that Enjolras just can’t wrap his mind around. It’s a bit like spending time with Gavroche, if Gavroche was older and acted like the world had sucked all the hope out of him. And if Gavroche was a fashion-obsessed mercenary asshole willing to sell his soul to the highest bidder, so long as they actually paid up.

Enjolras watches him eat, hunched over and still watching Enjolras.

He’s smart.

It’s a weird kind of smart, but it’s there.

Montparnasse tilts his head to the side, and then puts his sandwich down. He leans forward, elbows on the mattress, watching Enjolras. “Always thought muscles are neat,” he says. “Takes four to rip something apart, and fifty to actually have a reason to do it.”

This is possibly the most useless conversation Enjolras has ever had. “And that means what?” He hopes this isn’t innuendo. He’s pretty sure it isn’t innuendo, but he’s always been hopeless with recognizing flirting or any sort of suggestive behavior. He can do it with Grantaire, but that’s mostly because he’s had four years to figure Grantaire out. He’s committed every quirk of his eyebrows and shrug of his shoulders and the way he sounds.

Montparnasse just shrugs. “Just always thought it’s neat,” he says, and goes back to eating his sandwich.

Enjolras lets him, and looks around the compartment, guns strewn around the small cabin. The ripped apart remains of the pillow make it look like it snowed, and Enjolras feels lost, like he doesn’t know what to do. He settles for eating his dinner and staring down at his phone occasionally as he sits on the floor, because the bench seat is taken, thanks to the weaponry.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to finish eating, but it must be longer than he thinks, because Montparnasse is asleep. He just collapsed face-first onto the pillow he must’ve grabbed at some point, one arm swinging through the air along with the minute, almost imperceptible rocking of the train.

Enjolras stores the guns back in the weapons case as quietly as possible. He picks up the white balls of fuzz and fabric that are strewn about the cabin and stuffing them into a plastic bag.

And then he has nothing to do again.

Enjolras hasn’t slept since the morning of the museum fire, not really. He’s napped. He knows he needs sleep, and it’s a reasonable hour for it, isn’t it? His phone says it’s 9 PM, which is very reasonable for sleep. He folds his own bed out and doesn’t even try to find a way to get a pillow. He brought this on himself.

He steps out of his shoes, pulls off the ridiculous fancy shirt that is nothing like what Enjolras usually wears, and is about to strip the pants and undershirt off when Montparnasse says very, very clearly, “Stop there.”

It takes him a moment to realize what Montparnasse means, but it’s fair enough. He’s more than willing to accommodate someone in a ‘roommate by necessity’ situation like this one. Enjolras turns the lights off, and manages to trip over his own shoes on his way back to the bed. He curses and barely manages to catch himself before he falls to the floor.

“You okay?” Montparnasse asks.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras snaps, and rolls into the bed, even if he has no expectation that he’s going to get any rest.

“Pretend this is the dream,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras frowns at the bottom of the bunk above him. “Excuse me?”

“You need to sleep. Lie to your brain, say you’re already dreaming. Or remembering. Just lie. Works for me sometimes,” Montparnasse says.

“I’ve tried that,” Enjolras says, and he’s just exhausted now. It feels like getting dragged underwater by stones around his ankles. He doesn’t even have the energy to be annoyed anymore.

“No, I mean – here,” Montparnasse says, and hops down from his bunk. He doesn’t move beyond that, though. He just stands there. “When were you on this train last?”

Enjolras drags a hand down his face. “Just go away,” he says.

“Look, I _know_ you haven’t slept in the last, what, two days? It’s like me getting sliced. Your well-being is my well-being. So close your fucking eyes and think about the last time you were going from Paris to Berlin,” Montparnasse says. “I’m guessing your boy was with you. Since he always is.”

“Of course he was,” Enjolras says. And fuck, it’s been so long since he was on this train. He hadn’t realized how _sedentary_ they’ve been until this very moment. How stagnant they've become. 

At the latest it would’ve been when they were – no, that was before Moscow, even. It was after Kiev. It was when Ivanova was potentially becoming a problem, but wasn’t anything he considered a serious threat. It was when Grantaire was a hot itch beneath his skin, when disdain and disgust meant a bullet was put in someone’s brain. It was dirty and simple and _efficient_.

They were going to Poland.

They were going to Wroclaw.

They were going to Wroclaw, and Enjolras had been losing his fucking mind listening to Grantaire sleep above him, because he makes noises in his sleep. Grantaire doesn’t snore, but when he’s truly, deeply exhausted, he breathes heavily into the fabric of his pillow, curled with most of his face smashed against his arm.

Enjolras had heard more than that, though.

Sometimes, Grantaire would mutter his name in his sleep, just small breaths of syllables, as if his lungs were just naturally forming Enjolras’ name even when Grantaire was unconscious.

“I couldn’t sleep then, either,” Enjolras says.

Nobody would’ve been able to sleep. He’d had his hands clenched against the mattress, body coiled painfully tight, thinking _I should tell him, I’ll do it in the morning_ with a frantic sense of false determination.

“Then go deeper,” Montparnasse says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Paris to Berlin, Berlin to Prague. Enjolras had spent the trip pretending not to count how many times Grantaire refilled his flask and spent the night wondering what the number meant. Always, every time, his mind circled back to Tripoli, and he’d thought _I’ll tell him in the morning_ , false determination.

Paris to Berlin, Berlin to Minsk. Their first time out after Kiev, and Enjolras spent the entire trip paralyzed and staring at Grantaire and thinking, _I should tell him, oh fuck, I should tell him, I’ll tell him in the morning_ , and hadn’t believed himself for a single fucking second.

Paris to Berlin, Berlin to Zagreb, give or take a few transfers. Grantaire had been fretting and snapping at him the entire time, saying, _you have the fucking flu, Enjolras, you sound like a mule kicked your larynx out, why couldn’t you wait a week to go kill this asshole?_ And he’d brought a massive bag of cold medicine and tissues and more equipment that Enjolras couldn’t squint hard enough to read the labels but looked more than a little illegal.

He’d wanted to snap at Grantaire, wanted to shove him away, but not at all wanted to do that. Grantaire had pressed a hand to his forehead, brushed hair away from his skin with gentle fingers while he grumbled and shoved a thermometer into Enjolras’ mouth. His thumb had brushed against Enjolras’ lower lip, and Enjolras had shuddered like a fool and Grantaire hadn’t thought anything of it, thought it just one more shake from a fever.

Enjolras sighs, and shifts onto his side, eyes sliding shut as he remembers. Grantaire had muttered about how fucking stupid Enjolras is, folded down the bed barely after sunset – and sunset had been early that time of year. It was early winter, and Grantaire had been the warmest thing on the train. Or he was the thing Enjolras wanted. Either way, Enjolras had been drugged up and tucked in with all of the blankets Grantaire could get his hands on. He probably stole some of them. Enjolras hadn’t been healthy enough to care, because he curled up and said, “I’m _fine_.”

“Isn’t it your sworn duty to lie convincingly?” Grantaire had said, and frowned, blue eyes bright and worried. “This was really fucking stupid of you, Enjolras.” But it’d been soft, and he’d brushed a lock of hair behind Enjolras’ ear.

But he’d moved, then. Grantaire shifted away from him, and Enjolras grabs onto his shirt, eyes closed.

“Whoa, what the-” Grantaire says.

He needs an excuse, wants to just pretend he doesn’t know Grantaire will catch the same bug and get laid out for a week in Maribor and spend the entire time shoving it in Enjolras’ face in the hopes of getting rid of Enjolras’ babying. He tugs on Grantaire’s shirt – he usually obeys that, just goes where Enjolras pulls him. He needs an excuse. “I don’t have a pillow,” he says.

“Oh fuck no,” Grantaire says. “No. I am _not_ your boy.”

Enjolras isn’t above emotional manipulation, so he gives in to the illness, sniffles and lets himself look extra miserable.

“Oh god, don’t cry, if you cry on me I’m going to – fuck, okay, you’re obviously really out of it,” Grantaire says, and comes closer. He clears his throat. “You should go to sleep.”

“Pillow,” Enjolras repeats stubbornly, because he’s miserable, and he’s allowed to be stupid and selfish when he’s miserable.

“You’re shitting me,” Grantaire says, and he has a suspicion that there’s something wrong because he _knows_ Grantaire would fold immediately, gripe and insult him and run fingers through his hair just like Enjolras wants. Enjolras whines, and curls tighter beneath the covers. “Christ. _Fine_.”

It takes no time at all for Enjolras to shift upwards, and even less time to fall back down again, head pressed against Grantaire’s lap, and this is how it happened. This is how he fell asleep, warm and sick and disgusting but cared for and _safe_.

“Gonna make you buy me so much shit for this,” Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras would give him absolutely anything.

“Damn right you will,” he says. It takes a while, but careful fingers hesitantly brush through his hair. It’s light, almost ticklish with how shallow his touch is. “Go to sleep already.”

Finally, he does.

\---

Combeferre knows he should go to sleep, but it’s midnight, and he’s bundled in a thick blue coat sitting on top of the Musain’s rooftop with Reichard Loudin’s second number shining up at him. His phone’s screen is multitasking as both a flashlight and a convenient reminder of why he wouldn’t be able to sleep even if he tried.

There’s things he has to do. First and foremost is get in touch with Enjolras, but it seems like his fake phone is turned off for some reason. Either that, or he just can’t get through. He’s texted repeatedly, but it seems like there’s nothing he can do to contact Enjolras. The last he heard, Enjolras was in Lyon with Montparnasse, and Combeferre should’ve asked for more information. He doesn’t know much of anything about Montparnasse beyond he’s an informant and looks like a supermodel, for fuck’s sake.

He’s losing his touch, and Combeferre is 85% certain Reichard planned for him to do so.

They’ve fallen perfectly into Reichard’s trap, over and over again, just because of Combeferre’s attempts to hunt him down. It’s absurd, and Combeferre _knows_ it’s not his fault. He knows that. But for as far back as Combeferre can remember, he’s been the one who makes things happen. Enjolras has the dreams, and makes up the concept of a plan, and Combeferre is the one who can turn it into a reality. Ever since Courfeyrac joined them, he’s cemented Combeferre’s plans, deals with the human errors that Combeferre has never been able to fully control.

Human error is usually at fault for every single problem that ever arose in human history. Illogical plans and thoughts, letting passion get in the way – and that’s exactly what Reichard did, isn’t it? He hooked into Combeferre’s previously undiscovered competitive streak.

 _Is it really competition, though?_ Combeferre wonders.

No. He looks out at the nightscape of Paris, how the stars blocked out by the city seem to have simply been relocated, like Paris plucked them out of the sky for their own use. The city’s never quiet, but it is hushed. Combeferre clears the screen of his phone and pockets it, sighing. No, Combeferre isn’t competitive. He just doesn’t know how to deal with being defeated.

Reichard is standing on the top of a mountain that Combeferre is ripping his fingers apart just trying to get to the summit.

But Combeferre is beginning to realize that he doesn’t have to be at the top. He just needs an unobstructed view of whatever Reichard is looking out at.

He rubs at his temples. Reichard wants revenge. That much is obvious. Why not just kill them? He wants them to suffer. Why not just abduct them? Why give them a fighting chance – or so Combeferre assumes. He didn’t interfere when Enjolras allied with Montparnasse, didn’t interfere with Enjolras tracing Grantaire’s path, didn’t interfere with Enjolras’ progress in the slightest. He tried to kill Montparnasse, but that would be nothing but a set-back for Enjolras.

Reichard wants to be found.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says quietly, and Combeferre jumps, catching himself on the same window Courfeyrac is looking out from. “It’s two in the morning, Combeferre. Come in and just try to get some sleep, okay?”

Combeferre shakes his head. “I can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a reason I’m out here too,” Courfeyrac says simply, and holds out a hand. “Come on. We’ve got a good cuddle pile going on, there’s a spot between me and Bahorel with your name on it.”

Combeferre smiles at him, but doesn’t move. “I need to-”

“What you need to do is get in here and rest your big beautiful brain for a couple of hours, that’s what you need to do,” Courfeyrac says firmly, and the hand he’s offered becomes much more tense. “Either you come in or I come out with five other tired idiots and an awful lot of pillows.”

Combeferre gapes at him. “Oh my god, you made an _actual_ cuddle pile, didn’t you.”

Courfeyrac nods proudly.

Combeferre just hopes there isn’t an actual thing with his name sitting between Bahorel and where Courfeyrac was.

He takes Courfeyrac’s hand and lets himself be tugged inside through the window and into the emergency apartment they rent out on the top floor. It’s not quite an emergency apartment, though – more like an apartment for use if more than three people get abysmally drunk or nobody’s willing to sleep in the spare bedroom in Enjolras’ apartment for a variety of reasons.

They’ve all decided to not tell Enjolras it exists, since he would probably immediately try to not only pay for it, but also make his own apartment into some sort of communal space, which, no. No, they definitely don’t want to share a space with Enjolras and Grantaire. Even Grantaire doesn’t want to do that sometimes.

It’s also yet another Place Where Gavroche Sleeps Occasionally, but that seems to be any and every place with a bed and window somewhere in Paris.

Combeferre expects the absurd cuddle pile to be somewhere in here, but instead Courfeyrac leads him out and down the stairs, back into Enjolras’ apartment.

“You cleaned it up,” Combeferre comments. Or it’s as cleaned up as it can be, at least. The furniture is still ruined, but the broken remains of plates and pillows have been swept up. It’s tidy, for the most part. It looks like someone let seven angry cats loose inside of it, but it’s still back to looking like a home.

The cuddle pile is a mass of pillows and cushions and blankets, and it’s the most ridiculous thing Combeferre has ever seen.

Well, no, that’s a lie.

At the least, it’s very high up on the list.

But Courfeyrac keeps pulling him along, pulling his shoes off and giving Combeferre a stern look. When Combeferre does nothing, it doesn’t take long for Courfeyrac to roll his eyes and unzip Combeferre’s jacket for him, tossing it on the floor. He’s quiet about it, though, and Combeferre can see why. The rest of ABC is sound asleep in a configuration that vaguely reminds Combeferre of teenaged slumber parties.

Combeferre wishes he was even a little bit surprised that Courfeyrac would decide this is a great idea.

Then again, if Courfeyrac thinks this is a good idea, it probably is. Combeferre will never understand people like Courfeyrac does – honestly, he thinks _nobody_ can. There’s some sort of natural perception of what people feel and need, and then Courfeyrac gives them what they need. He has a horrible joke for someone before they know they need a distraction. He has a firm hand that keeps someone on target. He has a hug for someone, a bed for someone, a demand for company when someone just needs to spend time doing _something else_.

If Courfeyrac thinks Combeferre needs to climb into a pile of pillows and blankets on the floor, Combeferre probably does. He has suspicions it used to be a blanket fort.

He trusts Courfeyrac to know best, in this.

Combeferre steps out of his shoes and tries very hard to not let his resignation show when he follows a beaming Courfeyrac who grabs one of the fluffiest blankets Combeferre has ever seen.

“Come on, get in here,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre lets himself get pulled down, super-fluffy blanket immediately wrapped around him almost as tightly as Courfeyrac is. He kisses Combeferre’s temple. “Goodnight, my dear sweet Combeferre.”

Combeferre feels like he’s going to start shaking, suddenly. He’s endlessly grateful that Courfeyrac is there, steady and warm, and Combeferre grabs onto his sleeve, whispers, “God, I’m outclassed, Courfeyrac. I can’t beat him. I’ve never-”

“You’re going to find him,” Courfeyrac says firmly, and props his chin against Combeferre’s shoulder. His hair is pressed against Combeferre’s cheek, and it’s grounding, somehow. “I know for a fact that you’re going to find him, and you’re going to destroy him.”

And god, he wants nothing more than that right now.

“Chin up, you terrifying genius,” Courfeyrac whispers into his ear, and kisses his cheek.

Combeferre sighs, and lets his eyes close.

\---

Berlin is an exercise in Enjolras buying Montparnasse everything he sets his eyes on, which is fine with Enjolras. It is completely fine with him, because he slept for eleven hours and knows _exactly_ what he did to manage that, and if Montparnasse wants a ridiculous golden tea set shipped to Paris, he is getting a golden tea set shipped to Paris.

Montparnasse is sitting on a bench and watching him with still-accusatory eyes, finishing a drink from Starbucks that is “the most expensive cup of coffee you have ever made in your entire fucking life.”

Enjolras paid without a single word of protest.

After the Hugo Boss store and the custom tailor and the tea set, Montparnasse seems appeased. Maybe. Enjolras is just starting to worry his bank might call to see if his credit card was stolen. He knows the tea set is nothing but an exercise in spite, and Enjolras is fine with that.

When it’s boxed up and ready to be express shipped, Enjolras leaves the store and sits next to Montparnasse on the bench, their luggage on his other side.

“Okay, I’m good for now,” Montparnasse says simply, and pulls his phone out. “Been looking for leads on your boy – your _real_ boy – anyway.”

He is never going to let this go.

“Figured murders are the first place to go, probably by stabbing, got a hit reported late yesterday,” Montparnasse says, and after a few moments of flicking at things on his phone he holds the screen up to show Enjolras a crime scene photo. “Look like him?”

“I do know how to do research, you know,” Enjolras says, and takes the phone from Montparnasse, looking through the pictures.

“No need, though. Stick to the bargain, Moneypenny,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras has a horrifying suspicion that they’re something like friends now. He has no idea how that happened, so he just quietly deals with the sinking sense of resignation that comes with it.

He concentrates on the crime scene, flicking from one image to the next and back again. It’s possibly Grantaire, but it’s not his usual style. It’s _brutal_. Her death was ruthless, and very thorough. The woman is blonde, hands twisted into a position that says she didn’t go quietly. She did go scared, though – her eyes are wide open and she fell near a door, with a blood trail as if she was trying to escape.

Or maybe not. The blood beneath her shows she was moving towards the bathroom door. Whether she was trying to get there on her own or was dragged, Enjolras can only guess.

He has a guess she was trying to get to the man inside of the bathroom.

Grantaire hadn’t meant to kill her, but the blonde woman was very, very murdered, almost certainly by Grantaire.

“We need information on the woman,” Enjolras says firmly, and stands, grabbing two of the suitcases.

“So it _was_ your boy,” Montparnasse says, following his example. There’s still some obvious stiffness in his arm, but there’s no hesitation either. Whether there’s not much pain or Montparnasse just ignores it, Enjolras can’t even guess.

“Stop calling him that,” Enjolras says.

“Nah,” Montparnasse says. “You got a destination here, or need to walk out your frustration, or what?”

Which is a very good point. “I want to get a look at the crime scene,” he says instead. “I need records, I need to know what they found inside, I need-”

“Oh hey look, I have that on my phone now,” Montparnasse says, and lifts his phone in the air. “Wow. Technology.”

Enjolras turns and glares at him. “I really, really hate you,” he says.

“Not all the time,” Montparnasse says, grinning like an asshole, and Enjolras freezes.

He’s suddenly seized by an urge to grab him by the throat and punch him until he brakes his jaw, slam his head against the ground and scream at him because _he’s not Grantaire_ and Enjolras wants Grantaire, he _needs_ Grantaire. Enjolras grabs at his hair and starts doing something that’s almost pacing, more like he can’t decide what way to run because he doesn’t know where Grantaire is.

“The fuck? Christ, okay, sit,” Montparnasse says, and Enjolras barely hears him, doesn’t know what’s happening until Montparnasse shoves him backwards and Enjolras is sitting on another bench. He feels like he’s going to explode, like he’s dying, and Montparnasse shoves his back down until Enjolras is bowed in half, head between his legs. “Breathe.”

It’s easy for him to say, because Enjolras feels ready to vomit, heart racing and halfway to fainting, and is Grantaire okay? No, no he’s not okay, he’s not okay and Enjolras isn’t okay either, he’s a fool, he’s so fucking stupid he’s wasting all this time he doesn’t know what he’s doing he doesn’t know where Grantaire is, he wants Grantaire, he needs Grantaire.

“I’ve got no clue what I’m doing here, breathe already, what am I supposed to do here,” Montparnasse says. “In and out, come on, nice and slow.”

Enjolras hates him, he hates him so much, he wants to grab one of the nearby rocks and slam it into Montparnasse’s kneecap.

“I need you to calm down,” Montparnasse says. “Jesus, it’s – it’s the _least_ you owe me. Come on, Enjolras.”

_Come on, Apollo._

Get the job done.

Get the job done, and let’s go.

Enjolras tries to breathe, and it’s hard, shaky, but it’s something. He concentrates. _Come on, Apollo. Get the job done._ In and out. He holds on to the breath, wraps his mouth around it and exhales nice and slow. Nice and slow.

“Hey, see, there you go,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras shakes his head, and stays hunched over, keeps his eyes closed. That kind of savagery, just ripping someone apart like that – Enjolras has only seen Grantaire actually genuinely attack during a panic attack a few times. Usually, if you back away and speak softly, approach carefully, nobody gets hurt. Not physically, at least. If he had a panic attack and this blonde woman had tried to do something stupid like restrain him, it could definitely, definitely look like that. If he thought she was a threat, or planning on hurting him, Grantaire would tear her apart.

“He had a panic attack,” Enjolras says.

“…are we talking in third person now?” Montparnasse asks.

“Fuck,” Enjolras says.

Panic attacks _and_ drugs, probably mixed in with the usual alcohol. Won’t that be an interesting cocktail when they find him.

“You okay now?” Montparnasse asks.

He tries to imagine what Grantaire’s head is like right now. He’s probably all jumbled up, terrified, lost, desperately trying to cling to anything he can get his hands on that might be reassuring. Why didn’t he call Enjolras? Does he even remember he can? How fucked up is Grantaire right now?

Enjolras feels exhausted in a way he’s not used to, like his bones just bench pressed a car while his muscles stayed loose and easy.

Montparnasse puts a hand on his shoulder, leaning over to try and get a look at Enjolras’ face. “Seriously, are you-”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras states, which is a lie, but not entirely. He’s _better_ , at least. 

He keeps repeating that sentence, runs it through his mind over and over again. He clears his throat, and takes one more long, deep breath before sitting back up. Enjolras rubs at his eyes, and tries to pretend for a moment that none of that actually happened. “I need to know what drugs were in the apartment,” Enjolras says.

Montparnasse stares at him for a moment, like Enjolras just told him to estimate how many squirrels could fit in a jar instead of for this one simple thing. He pulls his hand away, cautious. “You really okay?” he asks.

“I said I’m fine,” Enjolras snaps, and gives him an expectant look.

Montparnasse looks like he wants to say something else, but he obviously thinks better of it and simply nods and turns to look down at his phone.

While Montparnasse does that, Enjolras pulls the pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. He has to take a moment to remember if he has a lighter, and he does, it’s in his inside coat pocket. Enjolras lights a cigarette and it’s difficult, with how his fingers are shaking, but he manages it. He rarely smokes, and Enjolras just keeps the cigarettes on him in case Grantaire runs out, really.

It’s simple. Inhale, exhale. He closes his eyes and can almost pretend Grantaire is there, too.

“There’s a lot of shit on this list,” Montparnasse says quietly, and Enjolras knows what that means. Montparnasse gets it too. When they find Grantaire, he isn’t going to be predictable. Not that Enjolras could ever completely predict him, but he could estimate. He could get close. Now? He’s not sure he could even do that.

Enjolras couldn’t guess what Grantaire would remember and what he’d just randomly seem to forget, can’t remember what would set him off, can’t remember _anything_ that could be useful. It’s infuriating. The only real memories he has that he could focus on are of that very first meeting, and tiny moments, the early days that were full of Enjolras staring at him from corners trying to decide what the fuck he was doing, and what the fuck Grantaire was doing, and what _they_ were doing.

He ignores that.

If he was Grantaire – if he was _anyone_ , really – if he felt like that, where would he go?

He’d go home.

Enjolras stands up and stomps on his cigarette, kicks the nearest suitcase so hard it rolls across the courtyard, because this is so fucking impossibly _stupid_ , he needs to rip something apart. And by the time they get back to Paris, he’ll be gone again, won’t he. He’ll be just sober enough to remember whatever reason it is that he’s left Enjolras and won’t come back and then he’ll head out again, and it’ll just keep happening, over and over and over again. Enjolras can’t catch him, not like this. He just spent twenty fucking hours on a train for no reason, for nothing but having to turn back around.

“How many breakdowns are you having right now?” Montparnasse asks.

“Shut up,” Enjolras snaps. He grabs the suitcase and pulls it back to the bench along with the other three, and sits down again, glaring at the shops opposite of them.

It’s just going to keep happening, like this. He can’t get there –

He can.

Enjolras grabs onto the edge of the bench, and he can do this. He can absolutely do this. If it’s for Grantaire, he can definitely do this.

“Get us the next flight to Paris,” Enjolras says, and pulls his wallet out, just hands over his credit card like he should’ve done three hours ago.

Montparnasse gapes at him. “We’re – you’re fucking with me. You are _fucking_ -”

“Just do it,” Enjolras says, and they’re going to need a taxi, so he steps out of the courtyard and into the street to flag one down. They’re going to need to find a way to get Montparnasse’s equipment through customs and security. They’re going to need to find Grantaire as quickly as possible when they land.

Oh fuck, Enjolras is going to vomit.

It takes no time at all for Montparnasse to roll his way to where Enjolras is standing and offer back Enjolras’ credit card with an unimpressed scowl. Enjolras just shakes his head, and Montparnasse pockets it. 

“We’ve got forty minutes to get on our flight. I’ll go ship my stuff, criminal mastermind,” Montparnasse says, and quickly takes the two actually useful suitcases into the store Enjolras had just bought him a stupid fucking tea set. 

By the time Enjolras has a cab, Montparnasse comes back with no suitcases. They’re down to two suitcases, and it feels so, so strange. 

The taxi ride is deadly silent, and Montparnasse looks like he’s barely restraining himself from murdering Enjolras, which Enjolras understands. They’re effectively unarmed, and someone has already tried to take Montparnasse out. Not to mention they’re just going right back to where they came from, right back to where they started.

When they do get to the airport, Enjolras (via Montparnasse) pays for the taxi, and runs for the nearest trash can so he can throw up what little food he has in his stomach. Montparnasse makes a strange noise somewhere between disgust and surprise, and Enjolras hates flying. No, he’s fucking _terrified_ of flying, and he doesn’t have time for this. He _doesn’t_. He needs to get a hold of himself, but instead he ends up vomiting again.

And he’s done now, because he has to be done. Enjolras coughs and tries to breathe and ignore the absolute terror trying to swamp his mind.

“Here,” Montparnasse says, and hands Enjolras a handkerchief to wipe his mouth with, and it’s humiliating, but at least Montparnasse isn’t trying to hold his hair back or say something comforting or something equally cringe-worthy. “Just throw it away, come on, we’re running out of time.”

Apparently Montparnasse’s phone can work as tickets, which, thank fuck, because the line at the counter is massive and full of screaming children and Enjolras is going to pass out.

“Okay, okay, it’s just a little over an hour, and then we’re in Paris, and you can find your boy, isn’t that nice?” Montparnasse says quickly. “You’ve done interviews five times that long and I know some of those were hell. You can do this.”

“Of course I fucking can,” Enjolras shouts at him, loud and furious and every single person in the line at security turns to stare at him.

“He’s scared of flying,” Montparnasse tells them all.

Apparently that justifies everything, since there are lots of understanding nods and their own trip through security is bizarrely gentle. “It’s okay, planes rarely crash,” the security guard on the other side of the metal detector says.

“People like you are the reason I think violence is the answer,” Enjolras tells her.

“Ooooookay, come on,” Montparnasse says, and pushes him forward.

Enjolras is proud to say they only have to stop so he can throw up one more time, and he makes it into a bathroom. When he gargles water in the sink and splashes it on his face and tries desperately to get a hold of himself or find some sort of control or some sort of distraction, something to hold on to along with the thought of Grantaire, Montparnasse hands him a toothbrush with a massive gob of toothpaste on it.

“Your job is to brush your teeth and not get toothpaste on your shirt while we walk because that’s a _good_ shirt,” Montparnasse tells him. “We’re almost to the gate, brush your fucking teeth, alright?”

Enjolras sticks the toothbrush and the minty paste into his mouth, and scrubs at his teeth like his life depends on it.

It helps.

“You will never live this down,” Montparnasse tells him, and drags him back into the concourse.

Humanity is not meant to fly. Enjolras is very proud of the technological achievements of the human race, the way people examined gravity and said, _yeah, fuck that_ is kind of impressive, but Enjolras would rather do so many other things than fly. Collect honey from bees while naked. Shoot people in the head is definitely up there. He would rather shoot so many people in the head than get on an airplane.

But it’s an hour and a half to Paris. It’s Grantaire on the other side of the runway, it’s going to be short and he can do this and he finds the nearest drinking fountain to the gate and spits out the remaining suds, cleans off the toothbrush, drinks water and fights the urge to scream.

When they cheerily inform the waiting passengers that they’re now boarding, Enjolras couldn’t move forward even if he wanted to. He holds on to the small suitcase, clutches it tightly and tries to breathe.

“How do you normally do this?” Montparnasse asks him.

“Very drugged, with Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

Montparnasse nods. “It’s even worse in the air?”

Enjolras starts laughing, then, and is really genuinely going to pass out.

“Alright, I’ll knock you out when you’re in your seat,” Montparnasse says simply.

It’s so surprising that Enjolras actually manages to get through the line and then onto the airplane, watching Montparnasse carefully. There’s a really unpleasant smile on his lips, a bizarre bounce in his step, and it’s…scary. It’s a threat.

The apprehension gets Enjolras into his middle seat, with Montparnasse on the aisle with bright excited eyes. “Just so you know, I’ve wanted to do this since we met,” Montparnasse says.

Something on the airplane makes a cheery _bing_ noise, and he can hear the pilot starting to speak, and Enjolras is about to start hyperventilating until he looks back at Montparnasse.

The last thing he sees is Montparnasse smiling with bright white teeth, lips stretched wide across his mouth as he swings something big and black and _heavy_ through the air, and Enjolras can do nothing but gape at him as Montparnasse bashes it against his head, sharp, and hard, and completely true to his word.

\---

Combeferre wakes up to sunlight, the smell of crepes, and a glob of Courfeyrac’s hair stuck in his mouth.

“Ugh,” Combeferre says, and fights his way out of Courfeyrac’s arms. He only feels slightly guilty at the protesting noise Courfeyrac makes. It leaves Courfeyrac as the only one of them still in the huge absurd pile of blankets. 

He has no idea how he missed the sound of their friends waking up, let alone starting to make breakfast. They’re all there, including Eponine, Marius, and even Cosette, who looks more than a little frazzled. Combeferre watches her refill a large cup of coffee and sees the fretting Marius does over her.

“Sleep well?” Joly asks with a smile, handing Combeferre his own much smaller cup of coffee.

“Thanks to Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says honestly, giving credit where credit is due, and takes a grateful sip of coffee while Joly lets out a small sigh. “Any news?”

“None,” Joly tells him, and pokes Bahorel in the side.

“Morning, Combeferre,” Bahorel says, cheery in a way that Combeferre pretends he doesn’t know is a little bit false. Everyone else is completely genuine, and Bahorel’s a good man to do it. “Hungry?”

“Not really,” Combeferre says.

“Two crepes it is,” Bahorel says, and goes back to cooking.

Combeferre doesn’t even try to argue. He just sets himself to the task of trying to pick his own shoes out of the pile strewn around the apartment.

When Cosette joins him, Combeferre isn’t surprised in the least.

“We should talk privately,” Cosette says simply.

Honestly, they should’ve talked long ago. Now that Combeferre can actually think a little bit beyond Reichard and his obsessive need to murder the man, he can see how ridiculous it is that he hasn’t even considered speaking with her. Cosette is exceptionally intelligent, and has resources that Combeferre can get to, yes, but not fully utilize. Not really.

Combeferre looks around the room and counts his friends and yes, okay, all accounted for and no chance of walking in on anything. “Come with me,” Combeferre says, and heads into the guest bedroom. It’s not big, but Enjolras is dedicated to making his friends comfortable and welcome (and it also used to be emergency sleep location for Grantaire), so there’s a small table with two chairs, and plenty of light. He sits down at the table and stretches slightly. “I’ve assumed you know Grantaire’s not actually dead.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Cosette says simply, and pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket – she’s still very much a hard copy person. Combeferre can respect that. Papers can’t run out of battery. “I traced the painting that was stolen, the very first one. I remembered there’s _three_ people involved in that painting, not just two. After doing some digging, I’m pretty sure the man in the hat is Jean-Auguste Loudin’s father. His name is-”

Combeferre lets his head fall directly onto the table.

“Are you okay?” Cosette asks carefully.

“You’re very smart,” Combeferre says. “I – that’s a good way to figure it out.” Three people on the painting had never even occurred to him, _why_ hadn’t that been obvious? Grantaire painted Enjolras, Enjolras blew Jean-Auguste’s brains all over the canvas. He sighs. “I’m guessing you have more.”

“I’ve been trying to keep track of Grantaire, but – well, he’s Grantaire,” Cosette says, both fond and exasperated. “He’s been to three cities for sure, Lyon, Stuttgart, and Berlin. Each time, he killed someone. Um. I’ve kept that sort of quiet.” She’s blushing, just slightly. “Or the fact it’s Grantaire, at least. And that they’re connected.”

Combeferre hasn’t really been involved in the search for Grantaire, he’s almost ashamed to admit. He nods. “What do you have?”

“Lyon and Stuttgart are hits, standard assassinations, so I’m pretty sure he was getting orders – and I’m _also_ pretty sure he’s not alone. Or wasn’t, at least,” Cosette says, and pulls out two pictures. One is a surveillance shot of a blonde woman, and the other is that same woman being very, very dead. “He had supervision, or a partner, or something. As of yesterday, she’s dead.”

“Grantaire did this,” Combeferre says, pointing at the picture with raised eyebrows.

Cosette sighs, and frowns, and nods. “It’s the right kind of knife, right kind of technique.”

“There’s _technique_ to this?” Combeferre asks, incredulous.

“Which one of us has a job where they analyze crime scenes and catch criminals?” Cosette asks. “You can mastermind all you want, but _this_ , this is what I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre apologizes, and means it. “I know you’re excellent at your job. It just doesn’t look like anything other than frantic stabbing and cutting to me.”

Cosette nods. “Well, I’ll spare you the nitty gritty, but it’s thorough. He wanted to make sure this woman died, and he made _very_ sure of it. It looks very messy, and it _is_ messy, but Grantaire knows what he’s doing. It wasn’t him attacking some unarmed woman, she was probably trying to kill him right back.”

“So he thoroughly killed his supervisor, and now he’s wounded?” Combeferre asks.

Cosette nods, and looks very grim. “Wounded, lost, and scared,” she says.

There is absolutely nothing good about that.

“I’m guessing Enjolras is tracking him down,” Cosette says. “Does he have any other information?”

Combeferre honestly doesn’t know. He’s been concentrating on Reichard, not Grantaire. “I’m not fully in the loop. Communication’s been sporadic. He’s working with someone named Montparnasse,” Combeferre tells her.

Cosette frowns. “Montparnasse,” she repeats. “That sounds familiar.”

“He’s a sort of criminal for hire, from what I’ve come to understand,” Combeferre says. “You’ve probably come across him before.”

She doesn’t look appeased with his answer, though. When Cosette stands and walks back into the kitchen, Combeferre grabs his coffee and follows her.

“Has anyone heard of a Montparnasse?” Cosette asks.

“Why have _you_ heard of Montparnasse?” Eponine asks, frowning. “Whatever you’re working on involving him, drop it. Give the case to someone else. He’s _scary_.”

Combeferre has a very tight grip on his coffee mug. “How so?” he asks, tense.

“He’s a psychopath,” Eponine says simply. “There is literally _nothing_ he won’t do for the right price. And I do mean nothing. If you’re working a case he’s involved with, I can tell you he’s guilty, and you should leave him alone before he hears and something _unfortunate_ happens to you.” She grimaces. “Montparnasse. Ugh. New conversation topic, please.”

Combeferre fucked up.

He fucked up so, so badly.

The coffee mug in his hand shatters and he barely even notices, even while his friends shout and try to help, because Combeferre – how could he _miss this?_ All he had to do was just ask Eponine, what would’ve been so fucking hard about that?

Reichard took up his every thought, distracted him to an awe-inspiring degree, made him fail to do the tiniest bit of research on the man who was leading his best friend all over Europe.

By now, Enjolras might even trust him.

 _Well played, Reichard,_ Combeferre thinks, and barely keeps in his scream.


	7. Jardin du Luxembourg | Avion à Paris - Paris.

Enjolras wakes up slowly and painfully, with an incessant high thrumming sound around him. He groans, and trying to think is incredibly difficult. It feels like he’s trying to thread a needle while wearing mittens. It feels _painful_ , and aching, and Enjolras groans, trying to get a hand to his head.

“No, hey, stay down,” he hears, and it’s Montparnasse.

Of course it’s Montparnasse. Enjolras groans again. He tries to sit up, because he’s in a reclined seat, but there’s a seatbelt on his lap. “What-”

“Don’t open your eyes,” Montparnasse says. “It’s okay. Only about forty minutes left. Can you swallow pills?”

“What happened?” Enjolras asks, but keeps his eyes closed. It’s easier that way.

“I punched you in the face,” Montparnasse says. “Or temple. Whatever. Didn’t have another way to knock you out for, uh. Leaving. Don’t worry, memory loss comes with a concussion.”

Enjolras grimaces, wondering about what the fuck Montparnasse is saying, and then he remembers, and his eyes fly open.

He’s on an airplane, in a much-reclined middle seat with Montparnasse blocking his way to the aisle, and they’re in the air.

Before Enjolras can do anything but gasp, Montparnasse grabs a pill and a cup from his tray table and puts them straight in front of Enjolras’ eyes. He looks sort of anxious. “Xanax, three shots of vodka, or I punch you again, pick one,” he says.

“No,” Enjolras says, and grabs onto his armrests so hard they squeak.

“Fuck your pride, Enjolras, just _pick one_ , alright?” Montparnasse snaps. “Or I’m just going to punch you again and risk-”

Enjolras grabs the pill and dry swallows it, then grabs for the vodka, but Montparnasse pulls it back before he can get his hands around it. The alcohol nearly splashes out of the cup, but Montparnasse catches it just in time. “Those don’t mix,” Montparnasse says, and grabs yet another cup, handing it to him. It’s apple juice, fresh and crisp and fruity, and Enjolras tries very hard to concentrate on nothing but drinking it.

The plane in the air is big and horrific and is just _hanging there_ , with nothing between it and the ground other than a cruising altitude that is nothing but wind between him and death, there are so many ways that he could die, _why_ -

“Jesus, just – what do I do here?” Montparnasse asks, and grabs Enjolras by the chin, forcing him to look straight at Montparnasse. “Breathe and think of your boy because he’s why you are doing this and you’re in love and all that shit. The power of love. And marriage. And stuff.”

“What the fuck, Montparnasse,” Enjolras says. 

“I’m trying to help, I don’t know what I’m doing!” Montparnasse shouts at him.

“That’s obvious,” Enjolras says. The pill is doing absolutely nothing.

“Should’ve asked for cocaine instead of Xanax,” Montparnasse mutters, and then takes a deep breath, looking almost scared, which is just. Enjolras has no idea what’s happening. “Should I punch you again? Or – I could choke you out, probably, that might-”

“Shut up, shut _up_ , no more punching or choking or hitting me,” Enjolras orders, and smacks Montparnasse’ hand away from his chin, glaring. He concentrates on the urge to slap Montparnasse until he turns back into his snippy obnoxious arrogant self again, and holds out his hand. “Gum.”

“Why?” Montparnasse asks.

“Because I said so, that’s why, now give me some gum,” Enjolras says.

“It’s not gonna help,” Montparnasse says, but shifts to dig into his pocket and grab a pack of gum and hand a piece over.

Enjolras unwraps it and pops it into his mouth immediately and _ugh_ , he grimaces at the overpowering taste, frowning at Montparnasse. “What _is_ this?”

“Cranberry lime,” he says, and after a moment he starts unwrapping today’s scarf off of his neck. It’s a fluttery-looking silver thing. “Okay. Okay. Sensory deprivation or something.”

He barely has time to be confused before Montparnasse wraps the scarf around Enjolras’ eyes, loops it around a couple of times and ties it tightly behind his head. It’s scratchy against his forehead, and he’s absolutely certain that Montparnasse caught some of his hair in the knot.

“ _And_ ,” Montparnasse says, and Enjolras winces when Montparnasse shoves earbuds into his ears. Almost immediately, there’s incredibly loud music in his ears. It’s not _music_ music, though. It’s high pitched and pixilated and there’s the occasional tweak-like sound, and Enjolras realizes he’s listening to whatever game Montparnasse has been playing.

He can’t see anything, can’t hear anything, can only taste Montparnasse’ fucking _horrible_ gum, and Enjolras can almost pretend he isn’t on an airplane. He puts his hands in his lap, tries to breathe steadily. Enjolras closes his eyes and listens to the _ting ting_ noises of whatever Montparnasse is doing. It’s strange sounds constantly changing, nothing rhythmic or steady about them, and Enjolras tries to concentrate on that more than anything else.

Enjolras has no idea what’s happening anymore, beyond that the fast beeping in his ears means Montparnasse is probably close to dying. After a while of listening to Montparnasse’s game, Enjolras leans back in his seat and falls asleep.

\---

Combeferre makes sure he’s alone when he calls. It’s an abnormally warm afternoon, and he’s down to a long-sleeved shirt. Even then, he’s already rolled up the sleeves, sitting beneath a tree and staring at his phone.

It’s not quite the same bench, but it’s close. 

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want his friends involved in this call. Combeferre knows they’re the greatest asset he has, but he feels like this is personal. It’s between him, and Reichard. Combeferre knows it’s completely ridiculous, but he can’t let go of that sense that this is a two person game, even with how monumentally involved Grantaire and Enjolras are in this. It’s _about_ them, but the ones moving the pieces on the board are Combeferre and Reichard.

He calls on his own phone, having programmed Leclaire’s number for _Reichard Loudin_ into it. He’s been sitting on this number for far too long, spent what was left of the morning trying to track Enjolras down and give him as much of a warning as he could – which failed, obviously. Combeferre sighs. They’re running out of options, beyond the simple answer of Combeferre finally taking Reichard down.

Combeferre doesn’t let himself stall anymore. He calls, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, sitting on the edge of his bench while it rings.

It doesn’t take long for the phone to pick up. Where last time it was a casual greeting, almost like a regular talk on the phone, just a nice simple conversation, this sounds like being punched with brass knuckles.

“You took your time about this one, didn’t you,” Reichard says. He’s harder to hear this time, which could make sense. It’s a different phone, after all.

Combeferre doesn’t even try to figure out how Reichard knew it was him immediately. He has to concentrate on the conversation, on _Reichard_. He has to match him, move for move. “Talking to you isn’t that productive, and thanks to you, I’m _very_ busy,” Combeferre says.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Reichard says, suddenly sounding far more pleasant. “Do you mind if I ask a question, Combeferre?”

“Not particularly,” Combeferre says, and doesn’t bother with the _I might not answer, though_. They both know it already.

Reichard makes a humming noise that Combeferre can’t get a read of. It’s not negative, though, he’s fairly certain of that. He’s reminded of people trying to choose between two items on the menu. He says, “You know who I am. You know who I’m targeting, what I’m trying to achieve here, but here’s the question for you – why am I talking to you right now?”

It’s a fair question.

If he was being logical and reasonable about this, Reichard would be dropping any and every form of contact there is for Combeferre to find. He doesn’t doubt that it’s possible. Combeferre has admitted that if anyone could outsmart him, it’d be Reichard. He would never have been able to clear up the money trail, but he could’ve dropped Leclaire’s phone. He could’ve given a false name when he invited Leclaire in on his revenge plot. So why didn’t he? Why _is_ he talking to Combeferre right now?

“Because you want to,” Combeferre answers.

“That’s right,” Reichard says. “Keep that in mind, eh? I’ve been very honest with you, Combeferre, you should do the same. I do see myself in you. When you have more experience, and more _vision_ , and you’ve dealt with some of your bad habits, you’d have already killed me in cold blood.” There’s a sigh. “Of course, you’ll still manage that, but it’s the time frame I’m referring to.”

Combeferre frowns, and barely restrains the urge to ask how Reichard can be so sure when Combeferre himself has started to doubt himself so completely that the only thing holding him together last night was Courfeyrac. Instead, he says, “This isn’t just a learning experience.”

“Oh no, of course not,” Reichard says. “But. Our kind learns better when motivated to destroy. Develop your own skill set to counter mine. Outthink me, outmaneuver me, beat me. _Kill_ me, if you can get out of that sty you’ve been rotting away in.”

“You didn’t do all of this for me,” Combeferre says. “You did it for _you_.” He hesitates, but says it. “You did it for your son.”

There’s a long sigh, and it sounds tired and old in a way Combeferre can’t even imagine. “My son lived by his heart,” he says, with a strange sense of finality that Combeferre doesn’t understand. He feels like he’s missing something in this conversation about Jean-Auguste.

Admittedly, he doesn’t know everything that happened when Enjolras and Grantaire met. He knows that Enjolras went in and got captured and tossed into the room where Grantaire was. Grantaire killed the guard, and Enjolras killed Jean-Auguste when he walked in, and they left together. Neither of them have ever seemed particularly interested in giving details, and Combeferre regrets that now. It would’ve been useful to know exactly what happened, exactly what the situation here is.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be a father, Combeferre,” Reichard says. “I never intended to know either, but here I am. You don’t stop being a father even when your son has been dead for four years. It’s a bit like being a captain with no ship, I suppose.”

“And you expect me to be that ship?” Combeferre asks, completely disbelieving.

“Oh god no,” Reichard says. “I expect you to kill me.”

Why isn’t he fighting? It’s not the first time Reichard has said it.

“You fucking _planned_ to die, didn’t you,” Combeferre says, stunned. “You _want_ me to kill you. Are you – what, are you suicidal?”

Reichard sighs, and hangs up.

Combeferre stands up and barely restrains himself from throwing his phone into the nearest tree for so many, many reasons. He settles for walking forward and then backwards, side to side, doing some sort of pacing while scrubbing a hand through his hair and trying to control his breathing.

Everything he does, Reichard has planned for. Reichard is _expecting_ to die – he fucking planned it, didn’t he, he’s ready to sacrifice himself just to get revenge, and if he hadn’t said it, if Combeferre hadn’t realized what exactly he’s doing, Combeferre would’ve moved immediately towards killing Reichard instead of helping his friends. Or would he? Fuck, Combeferre doesn’t know, he doesn’t _fucking_ know, he can’t even predict _himself_ anymore.

“Stop being so dramatic, I’m right here,” Reichard says, and Combeferre turns, eyes wide and stunned to see a man wearing a fine white hat walking towards his bench. He’s well-dressed and has a face that looks more suited for boxing matches than espionage and criminal mastermind work. His eyes, at least, seem honest – even from this distance, with a hat on his head, there’s an unnaturally intelligent honey glint to them.

He walks with a cane, but manages to move at a reasonable enough speed. He has no choice but to seem like he’s strolling leisurely. Combeferre gets a vicious twist of pleasure to think of that. If Reichard wants to look suitably do-not-fuck-with-me for the criminal underworld, he has to maintain that slow gentlemanly pace at all times.

“You’re very tall, you know,” Reichard tells him. Combeferre never really considers himself tall, but then again, most of his friends are probably above average height. “You look like a sprinter, Combeferre. Did you ever do sports? Track and field, perhaps?”

Combeferre stays exactly where he is. Reichard stops at almost the same distance away from the bench, just on the opposite side. “No, but I could still hurtle over this bench and strangle you without any difficulty,” he says.

Reichard laughs, and presses fingers to the brim of his hat, a sort of casual salute. “Then there’s no point in a separation, is there?” he says, and limp-strolls his way on over to the bench to sit down. “Now. I don’t want to die, but the fact is that I’m going to die either way. But being able to choose how you go is a bit of a luxury that I’d like to indulge in, you understand. I have cancer, which isn’t quite terminal, but I don’t feel like going through the indignity of treatment. Suicidal isn’t quite the word for it, I think. It’s more like being efficient about the inevitable.”

“Me strangling you right here would be _very_ efficient, then,” Combeferre says.

“My, you’re quite set on the strangling, aren’t you?” Reichard says with a smile, and pulls his hat off, setting it on his knee. “Now. The real situation here is that there are men ready to shoot you if I put my hat back on.”

Combeferre believes him.

But suddenly, he doesn’t. Combeferre blinks, looks into the trees, and realizes, “No there aren’t.”

Reichard just shrugs. “Well, it usually works.”

 _That_ , Combeferre believes wholeheartedly. A threat is usually all you need. Why bother organizing and paying to back it up if you’re certain you won’t get called on it?

Thankfully, Combeferre can most definitely back his claim up when it comes to wrapping his hands around Reichard’s throat and squeezing until he can’t feel Reichard’s pulse beating frantically beneath his palms anymore. The risk here is entirely on Reichard’s side – so why come? Is he really so set on being killed?

“Don’t disappoint me, Combeferre,” Reichard says.

“You’re here to make an offer,” Combeferre says. He smiles, then – don’t disappoint him? Combeferre has no idea what he’s too close to, but he’s definitely done the complete opposite of _disappoint_ in one aspect of their game. “If you’re offering your life, the answer is no.”

“Oh, I already knew that,” Reichard says, and waves a hand through the air, dismissing even the concept. “Mostly I’m here to distract you for as much time as possible, and make an exchange.”

“The only thing I want is what you’re trying to stall,” Combeferre says.

It’s Enjolras. It has to be Enjolras. He’s too close to finding Enjolras and warning him, and whatever plans Reichard has in play with Montparnasse would fall apart completely. If there are plans with Montparnasse.

“You see, the thing is, you have many, many more weaknesses than I do,” Reichard says. “The one I’m after right now is Cosette. Either you call her off, or I kill her. And _this_ , I assure you, is no bluff.”

It definitely isn’t a bluff. This isn’t something Reichard would leave to chance. If his plans are reaching endgame, and she’s close to ruining it all, Reichard would take her out without a second thought. But how thorough of a threat? Cosette isn’t exactly a helpless little girl. Reichard seems old school enough that he would probably underestimate Cosette, but does he dare guess at how much? Would he be bringing a knife to a swordfight, or a knife to a gunfight?

Can Combeferre trust that he’d only be ensuring the survival of all his friends instead of dooming two of them for the price of one? Or, he could doom all three. He needs to call Cosette off without actually calling Cosette off. He needs to find a way to tell her to do nothing other than be _subtle_ about it – subtlety has never been her best skill. She’s too honest. She’s cunning, but in the end, she’s just too good of a person.

“I might take that risk,” Combeferre tells Reichard honestly.

“I thought so,” Reichard says. “Which is why I’m not quite done convincing you. Or making a bargain.” He leans back on the bench, looking at Combeferre with a sharp curiosity. “Really, I’ve always wondered why you’re willing to waste away like this.”

“There’s nothing wasting away,” Combeferre says.

Reichard scoffs, and shakes his head. “You’re a _wolf_ , Combeferre,” he says. “And here you are in Paris with politicians. You’re a wolf desperately trying to fit in with pigs. It’s a tragedy.”

“If you’re trying to rile me up, it won’t work,” Combeferre says.

“Just musing, Combeferre, just musing,” Reichard says, holding a hand up, asking for peace. “I’m not stupid. So, tell me what I can offer.”

Combeferre hesitates.

He knows that this isn’t a bluff. He could ask for practically anything, and Reichard would probably find a way to make it happen. It’d be efficient, Combeferre thinks. He could have Reichard kill Leclaire and then there’d be nothing to clean up. He could demand every cent Reichard has in the bank – not that Combeferre needs it. 

“No matter what happens here, I win,” Reichard says, almost soft about it. “No matter what you do, I’ve succeeded. I won the moment I exchanged two words with Grantaire.”

Reichard is stalling, but he’s _honest_ , and Combeferre watches him carefully. “You want me to believe this is the bells and whistles, but it isn’t. You wouldn’t be here if you’d already achieved your objective. Whatever you’re leading them to, it’s important to you,” Combeferre says, and finds that he’s smiling. “And that’s my price.”

“Your price to save your friend Cosette’s life is finding out what I’m about to kill her to keep secret?” Reichard asks, and scoffs.

“That’s not my price,” Combeferre says. “I said I want whatever’s most important to you. And we both know what that is.”

Reichard is very, very obviously not happy with this information. “It’s mine,” he says.

“You stole it. It’s in no way yours, and I want it back,” Combeferre says. He ends up grinning. “I want to hang it in my bathroom. Or maybe I want to use it as a coaster. It depends.”

He scowls at Combeferre in a way that speaks of stabbing coins into arteries.

“All this time, I was ignoring the painting,” Combeferre says. “Once a father, always a father, isn’t it? You just wanted his blood back.” He puts as much disdain in his words as possible, and there’s definitely an honest vein of vicious satisfaction in the sentiment.

“Can you imagine what it’s like to have a canvas covered in your son’s blood on display in a museum?” Reichard asks, blatantly disgusted, a not-that-quiet rage simmering beneath it all. “It’s in museum guides, it’s in books, it’s in _movies_ , and it’s always the same – the start of a beautiful love story.”

There’s nothing beautiful about the story. Enjolras and Grantaire are quite possibly the most unhealthily codependent couple he’s ever even heard of.

Reichard stands, and it looks painful, like he’s fighting his way out of a pit of quicksand instead of getting off a bench. Combeferre takes a moment to wonder what exactly his cancer is. He hopes it’s something particularly horrible.

“My son’s blood and soul and betrayal, and they see it as the start of a great romance,” Reichard bites out. “Jean-Auguste thought _he_ was the great romance. He was always a fool, but never so much as with his heart, or that _fucking_ artist of his.”

“Is that a no to my terms, then?” Combeferre asks.

Reichard doesn’t glare at him. Not quite. “I could just have your friend killed,” he says, as if Combeferre could have forgotten the situation in the past minute.

“Do that, and someone else starts wondering why she was assassinated and picks up the investigation,” Combeferre says. “People start digging in places you don’t want them to dig.”

“But they’d take their time about getting there,” Reichard says, which is the flaw. That’s the one problem. But it’s also the one question that neither of them can really answer. Combeferre (and Cosette) need time to find Enjolras and Grantaire. Reichard needs time for _something_ without interference. They’re both tantalizingly close to their goals, a finger’s length away.

Which of them is faster?

It’s a mental quickdraw, Combeferre realizes. And he also realizes he’d probably lose. But where all this time Combeferre thought it was a two man game, him and Reichard dueling, it’s been three people. Reichard versus Combeferre, with a wild Cosette fighting her own battle in the distance.

“Give me the painting, and I’ll call her off,” Combeferre says.

“Call her off first,” Reichard says.

Combeferre wants to say no and bash out a more refined deal, wants to shove Reichard into a brutally harsh deal. But indulging his spite isn’t remotely worth as much as Cosette’s life.

Absently, Combeferre wonders how an Interpol agent has also managed to casually smile her way into ABC when she used to be trying to take it down.

He pulls his phone out and quickly dials Cosette. She’s not on his speed dial, but she’s close enough.

“Combeferre?” Cosette answers. She sounds incredibly tense.

“Whatever you’re doing, I need you to stop it,” Combeferre says. “You’re going to get shot if you don’t.”

“Subtle,” Reichard says.

Combeferre doesn’t even bother responding to him.

“That just means I’m close to finding them,” Cosette says, obviously exasperated, like she wants to huff at Combeferre and tell him to _back off, I have it covered._

“Which is why you’re going to get shot,” Combeferre says. “Please, stop being brave for a moment and think of how many people would be completely ripped apart if you died.”

It takes a moment, but Combeferre already knows what the decision will be. Cosette is a brilliant thinker, a skilled tactician, but she and Marius are both creatures of the heart. He hears a heavy _thud_ on the other end of the call. “Fine,” she says quietly. “But you’d better get them, Combeferre.”

“I will,” Combeferre says simply. “Thank you.”

“Good luck,” Cosette says quietly, and hangs up.

Combeferre shoves his phone back into his pocket, turning to see Reichard holding on to his cane with both hands, like he’ll fall down without it. 

There was no _winning_ in this, not really. It was one life he could control, and two that would be up in the air either way.

“Painting. Now,” Combeferre says, and desperately hopes that he’s made the right decision.

“Of course,” Reichard says with a gracious nod, smiling in a way that makes Combeferre feel like something dangerous just whooshed right over his head, and starts strolling.

\---

Paris is beautiful.

Enjolras loves everything about Paris. He loves the uneven streets and the strange twists you find deeper in the city, he loves the constant mixing of the old and the new, loves the way there’s a consistency in the architecture even though each and every building is an individual in its own way. He loves the weather today, has to stand on the sidewalk and breathe in the air.

“You are so high,” Montparnasse says, and scratches a hand through his hair, grimacing because he has tangles in his hair. His fingers catch in clumps, and Enjolras watches him pull a comb out of one of the two remaining bags and work the snags out until it’s all weirdly fancy-looking again. “Fuck it, we’ll figure this out. Feeling okay?”

“I feel fine, thank you,” Enjolras says, and tries to really think back. He’d woken up when the plane started to fall, and it’d felt like he was bumping his way down a flight of stairs and then hit the wall at the bottom. Things are reasonable now, though. He’s on the ground, out of the airport, and they’ve taken a taxi to the middle of the city. 

Well, not exactly the center. He looks around, considering the street. That’s one of the problems about Paris – it’s beautiful, and he loves it, but sometimes, he has no idea where the fuck he is, because it all looks kind of similar if you don’t know where you are.

“Where are we?” Enjolras asks.

“One of my apartments so I can drop the bags off, since fuck knows there’s nothing useful in them now. Thanks for that, it’ll be great hunting down your boy unarmed, really looking forward to it,” Montparnasse says. He waves a hand in front of Enjolras’ face. “Tracking good?”

“Tracking as in following motion?” Enjolras asks. Montparnasse nods, expectant. “I’m okay with that. I _feel_ blurry, but my vision isn’t.”

“Food helps get drugs out, right? Food and sweat,” Montparnasse says. “Let’s eat.”

Enjolras shakes his head, and hands his rolling bag’s handle over to Montparnasse. “Grantaire first,” he says.

“There’s a lot of Paris to cover, you’ll do it better sober,” Montparnasse says, which is reasonable.

He definitely has a good point. Enjolras shakes his head, because he’s not dizzy, not quite. It’s more like he’s…fuzzy. The corners of the world are sanded down and made soft, smooth to the touch. And he wants Grantaire. “I’d sweat walking around in this heat if I’m in this coat,” Enjolras says simply, and nudges the bag closer to Montparnasse with a foot. “You don’t have to come. You’ve done enough, and helped me quite a lot. Thank you.”

Montparnasse looks like Enjolras just slapped him.

“What?” Enjolras frowns. “What’d I do? I always fuck up, I really don’t know how to do relationships. You’re a different kind of friend than I know what to do with.”

“Friend?” Montparnasse says, slightly strangled. “You’re – Jesus, we are, aren’t we.”

Enjolras shrugs, because he only figured it out a few hours ago too. It’s not like he went into this with a definite plan here, beyond _find Grantaire_. “I’ll see you around, then,” Enjolras says, and picks a street, and starts walking. Any direction is good, he figures. All roads lead to Rome, or home, so all roads probably lead to Grantaire, too.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed unsupervised,” Montparnasse snaps, and there’s a sharp hiss of pain which Enjolras has to take a moment to place. He has to turn around to see Montparnasse following him with both bags, and dragging one of them with his injured arm.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, and takes the bag from him. “Don’t make it worse than it already is,” he says firmly, and rolls down the street.

“Guess the thinking’s up to me,” Montparnasse says.

“I can think just fine,” Enjolras says, turning to frown at him.

“Sure you can,” Montparnasse says, waving a dismissive hand through the air for a moment before rolling his neck, wincing. “Hate flying. Okay, here you are, pretend you’re your boy Grantaire, scared and fucked up and out of your mind. You obviously don’t go home because someone would’ve fucking told you if he just waltzed through your apartment’s door, so what else you got?”

Enjolras appreciates the thought experiment, it’s a good idea. He rolls to the side of a building to lean against it and think, frowning at the street. Grantaire wouldn’t go to his old apartment, because that was never a _home_ for him. It was more of a way for Grantaire to get some space, back when they needed space. Now he gets space by going over to Cosette’s house. Which he wouldn’t do either – Grantaire isn’t in a good place. He’s in a _terrible_ place. There he is, trying to survive through hell all alone without Enjolras, so what would he do?

“He’s at that one guy’s apartment,” Enjolras realizes. “Loudin.”

Montparnasse’s hand snaps out and gets a painfully tight grip on Enjolras’ shoulder, turns him so that they’re eye to eye (or eye to just above eyebrows), and does that chin-grabbing thing again, forcing Enjolras to look right at him. He looks kind of crazy. “You know where this place is?” Enjolras thinks for a moment, and then nods. Montparnasse’s grip keeps the movement subdued, almost subtle. “And you’re just going to go in. That’s your plan.”

“Grantaire’s there,” Enjolras says simply, because it _is_ simple. And he’s so completely certain of this, it feels like someone just reinforced his spine with a steel rod.

Montparnasse just looks at him for a long time. “Sober up first,” he says.

Enjolras shakes his head. “No. He-”

“Fine,” Montparnasse says, and releases Enjolras completely. He steps back and stretches out his back and arms. He doesn’t wince. “You’re the boss. No pit stops?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras says.

“Didn’t expect this to go so quick,” Montparnasse says, and pulls his phone out. “Got an address?”

It takes a moment, but Enjolras nods, because he remembers the address. He remembers the metro station, remembers Grantaire being almost completely out of his mind, remembers all of it. The moment he recites the address to Montparnasse, they’re on their way. They walk for a long time, but Montparnasse hails a cab easily enough after a couple minutes of silent walking and rolling.

After a couple of minutes in the taxi, Montparnasse says, “It wasn’t all bad, you know.”

“You should join us,” Enjolras says. When Montparnasse gives him an apprehensive glance, Enjolras clarifies. “ABC, I mean.”

“You’re recruiting me,” Montparnasse says, incredulous. “You’re fucking _recruiting me_. Jesus.”

“You do a lot of work on a contract basis, from what I can tell,” Enjolras says. “Have you ever thought about what _you_ want?”

“Oh, that’s covered, believe me,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras sighs. “I mean more than money and clothes and…shiny things,” he says. “You can’t buy happiness, you know.”

“Gets me pretty fucking close,” Montparnasse says, and grins at him. It’s not a nice smile. Enjolras decides it’s more than a little obvious he wants the topic to be dropped, so Enjolras obliges with a shrug.

“I know I said I’d get you to Reichard, that you’d get a chance to rough him up,” Enjolras says. “I mean, I get that, you’re allowed to be angry when someone fucks you over like that. But I don’t know how long it’ll take. I’ll do it, I promise I will, but there’s no timeline guarantee. Combeferre can probably direct you better than I ever could anyway.”

“Finding him was always to be done together, I was just information and you were money,” Montparnasse says easily. He sighs. “Contract’s pretty fucked already anyway. Don’t bother with it.”

Enjolras frowns at him. “That’s charitable of you.”

“Just calling it what it is,” Montparnasse says.

It doesn’t take much longer for the taxi to reach its destination, and Enjolras pays before stepping onto the street with Montparnasse. It’s _familiar_. The building is the same, beyond the same subtle nonconformity of every building in Paris. The Jardin du Luxembourg is barely two streets away, easily visible through large, airy windows.

“We’re headed to the fifth floor,” Enjolras says, and he’s smiling. Montparnasse just sighs, and looks down at the bags, which makes sense. He grabs one of the bags and smiles as reassuringly as he can at Montparnasse. “There’s an elevator, don’t worry.”

“Stop that,” Montparnasse says, but there’s no heart behind it. It’s more like swatting at a fly you never expect to hit than anything else. Still, he follows Enjolras into the building easily enough. It’s simple, how he moves to walk in front of Montparnasse, like they’ve already developed habits.

The atrium is gorgeous, suitably bright and airy when they walk through the doors. There are no store fronts on the ground level, so it’s nothing but a fancy lobby that Enjolras can’t even bring himself to look around, because there’s the elevator, and he gets in practically shifting from one foot to the other, almost bouncing while Montparnasse sighs next to him.

“Should’ve sobered up, Moneypenny,” Montparnasse says.

“I still don’t know why you’re using _penny_ for that,” Enjolras comments. “Shouldn’t you want more money than that?”

“Oh my god, you’re _cute_ when you’re high,” Montparnasse says, like it’s truly deeply horrifying. “It’s – _really?_ You really don’t know James Bond?”

Enjolras just shakes his head, not too bothered. “We’ll watch it later,” he says.

The elevator _ding_ s, and the doors open, and Montparnasse says, “No, we won’t.”

He turns to frown at Montparnasse, already half out of the elevator, but there’s nothing to see. It’s only Montparnasse looking coolly indifferent to everything and anything. It’s an expression Enjolras hasn’t seen on his face for a while now, he realizes.

 _His business face,_ Enjolras thinks suddenly.

Montparnasse meets his eyes almost passively, and there’s nothing to read in his face. It’s as if Montparnasse has been replaced with a wax figurine replica, following him quietly out of the elevator.

It’s the end of a lot of things when they finally get to Grantaire, Enjolras supposes. Montparnasse works alone. Transitioning from this semblance of a partnership to that again would be rough.

Still, Enjolras doesn’t take the time to reassure him, because there’s nothing to reassure. Enjolras already knows his priorities. He turns away from Montparnasse and heads deeper into the empty apartment. Loudin’s apartment was the entire fifth floor of the building, a huge sprawl that contained offices as well as his own quarters. 

The last time he walked this way, he was tied up, a prisoner, so incredibly furious with himself for fucking up so severely on one of his first real jobs. They were probably four or five months down the road to true action, and ABC was starting to get _results_ , and Enjolras had reached too far, but Grantaire had been there. Grantaire saved him.

He makes sure Montparnasse is following close behind him as he heads straight for the huge bedroom that doubled as Grantaire’s art studio – and prison, not that Grantaire thought of it as that. He just snuck out anyway, from what Enjolras has learned. Grantaire is naturally stealthy, in a way that Enjolras usually worries about for what that might mean about his childhood. He has long conversations with Dax about that. But the hallway is bare in a way that it wasn’t before.

For a moment, Enjolras wonders if he was wrong. He’ll walk in, and there won’t be any sign of Grantaire. He’ll walk in and be at a loss for what to do next, completely helpless in the face of having to search the entirety of Paris. Enjolras doesn’t want that. At all.

He feels like something’s wrong, but the world is still _soft_ , and he can’t figure out what exactly the problem is. It’s like someone is rubbing a handkerchief over his brain.

Enjolras walks through the door, into Jean-Auguste’s bedroom, and has to grab on to the doorframe, because Grantaire is there. _Grantaire is there_ , slouched beautifully in a chair in front of the window, beautiful, perfect, wearing nothing but a battered old pair of jeans already frayed almost to the point of holes.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes out, and has no idea what he’s feeling. He’s dizzy, happy but somehow still mellow, ready to start crying but can’t get beyond a strange _buzz_ in his mind. Still, he drops the suitcase immediately and starts walking over, almost running.

But Grantaire shifts, rolling himself out of the chair and putting his feet on the floor in a way that reminds Enjolras of tigers climbing down trees. He also has a very big, gaudy, absurd revolver in his hand, and points it directly at Montparnasse.

Enjolras has perfected the art of Grantaire-watching, and knows better than to try and touch him right now. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s on, but he’s definitely on _something_ \- probably several somethings, honestly – and if Grantaire hit him once, there’s a chance he could do it again, and with that gun in his hands, Enjolras isn’t willing to chance having Grantaire sober up to see Enjolras’ dead body in front of him.

“The fuck,” Montparnasse says, and confusion breaks on to his face. He frowns, and looks around the room. Enjolras can’t see what’s so unusual about this – it’s set up exactly like before. “What the _fuck?_ ”

“There’s something strange happening,” Enjolras says, and he should know what it is, but he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on Grantaire. “Grantaire, put the gun down. Or give it to me.”

“He’s evil,” Grantaire says, not even glancing away from Montparnasse.

“I’m not evil,” Montparnasse says, almost dismissive, like he corrects people on this at least once a week. He steps into the room all the way, but completely ignores them. He looks through the room, and then heads for the bathroom with an aggravated noise. “Where did-”

Grantaire fires without even a word of warning, and Montparnasse lets out a strangled curse that makes Enjolras turn to look at him, not Grantaire, because Montparnasse is leaning against the wall, panting and clutching at his leg. There’s blood. Enjolras can tell it’s only a graze, but it was close. Grantaire nearly shot him through the leg, and from the size of that bullet hole, if Grantaire gets anywhere near an artery, Montparnasse would die very, very quickly.

Grantaire makes a choked noise, like he’s close to crying, “Enjolras, he’s _evil_ , you can’t-”

“Tell me why he’s evil, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and turns away from where Montparnasse is silently gritting his teeth, pulling his scarf off, and pushing it against the freely bleeding gouge in his thigh. Enjolras still doesn’t dare to touch Grantaire. There’s something terrifyingly manic in his eyes that Enjolras wants to fix, but doesn’t know how. “Give me good hard evidence and I’ll shoot him myself.”

Montparnasse laughs, then, bitter and sharp, but doesn’t say a word beyond that. He just stays pressed against the wall, watching them, lightly patting down his wound.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He looks lost. “ _Enjolras_. They – you shouldn’t be here. I. I didn’t mean to, but-”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I know you didn’t,” Enjolras says, and wants nothing as much as he wants to just get the gun out of Grantaire’s hands and curl around him. He holds out his hand. “Give me the gun, and we’ll talk this out. I don’t think Montparnasse is evil, but I also trust you. That means we should communicate.”

Grantaire looks away from Montparnasse for the first time, then, frowning at Enjolras. “He did something to you,” he says.

“I flew here, I took a pill, I’m fine,” Enjolras says as soothingly as possible.

Grantaire most definitely doesn’t give him the gun. He looks right back at Montparnasse, glaring. “And he gave you it, I bet he just fucking handed it over and you took it and didn’t _think_ , because you trust people, Enjolras,” he says. “You think there’s _honor_ in people. But me, me and him, we aren’t honorable.”

“Hey, you and me are plenty different,” Montparnasse says. “I hold to contracts. That’s the only honor I give a fuck about.”

“I’ve been given no reason to doubt his honesty,” Enjolras says. He adds, “Other than you right now, I mean. Why do you-”

“ _Because he is_ , okay? Why do I – you never understood, you still don’t, not everyone’s noble,” Grantaire says.

“I know that,” Enjolras says, and dares to take another step towards Grantaire. He wants to hold him. He wants to touch him. He wants Grantaire to drop the gun and hug him back. “You aren’t entirely yourself right now, Grantaire.”

“No,” Grantaire breathes out, and what color there was in his cheeks fades. “No, no no no, don’t start that. Please, Enjolras.”

“Let’s just sit down and talk,” Enjolras says firmly. “The only sober one in the room is Montparnasse. Give it a couple of hours to get us both back to -”

Grantaire’s hands are shaking, Enjolras notices. “He’s going to kill you, Enjolras, _he’s going to kill you_ , that’s why he was with you, if I fuck up they kill you, that’s – that’s how it worked. Works. Fuck, I don’t know.”

“ _What_ the _fuck?_ ” Montparnasse says, mouth dropping open.

“That is definitely not true,” Enjolras says firmly. “Someone lied to you.”

“Stop it,” Grantaire snaps, and then swallows hard. “ _Stop_. Please. I just need you safe.”

“I _am_ safe,” Enjolras says, and spreads his arms. “See? Completely safe. I’m right here and ready for you, whenever you’re ready for me.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras shrugs and puts his arms back down. He’s not quite sure himself. “Just hand the gun over, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“He’ll do something, I know he will,” Grantaire says.

“He won’t,” Enjolras says.

“He _will_ ,” Grantaire insists.

“I won’t,” Montparnasse says.

“You’re a _liar_ , you crazy psycho son of a bitch,” Grantaire screams at him.

“Stop trying to help, Montparnasse,” Enjolras says.

Wisely, Montparnasse doesn’t speak.

“Grantaire, let’s just talk, with no gun involved,” Enjolras says. “No more shooting. You know I don’t like killing people.”

Montparnasse scoffs, but he keeps it quiet. Grantaire probably can’t hear it over his own pulse and whatever else he’s hearing right now. His pupils are unnaturally large, his skin is covered in sweat, and his fingers have nothing but oil and grease on them. He’s a mass of taupe-based monochrome, the only spot of color in his concerningly thin irises.

“Come on, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and decides he might as well risk a panic attack – Grantaire would end up having one either way in a situation like this, probably. He steps forward and does exactly what he’s wanted to since he walked in here. He slowly wraps his arms around Grantaire, feels Grantaire’s fever-hot skin beneath his hands, and holds him tightly. He rests his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” Enjolras says, and dares to lightly press his lips to the side of Grantaire’s neck. “It’s going to be okay now.”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Grantaire whispers. “He’s going – he’s not-”

“It’s all going to be okay, Grantaire, I’ve got you,” Enjolras says, and slides a hand down Grantaire’s still outstretched arm, curling his own hand around the revolver and carefully coaxing Grantaire’s fingers away from the trigger and into Enjolras’ tight warm grip. He kisses Grantaire again, higher up on his neck, nose brushing against his ear just slightly. “I love you, and nothing will ever change that.”

Grantaire loses his grip on the gun, and it drops heavy (and ridiculous) to the wooden floorboards as he wraps his arms around Enjolras. “Enjolras, _Enjolras_ , please, please please please,” Grantaire says. It’s a strange litany, a rolling dialogue that switches between Enjolras’ name and _please_ every two or three words. He doesn’t much care. Enjolras is far more interested in holding Grantaire tightly and quickly kicking the gun to the side, just far enough that Grantaire can’t go grabbing for it.

“Everything’s okay now,” Enjolras says. “This was all just a misunderstanding.”

He hears something scrape across the floor, and Grantaire’s head practically burrows its way into the side of Enjolras’ neck, shaking. “I thought-”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says as soothingly as he can, runs a hand through Grantaire’s knotted hair. He’s a mess.

This seems strangely familiar.

He tries to think past the anti-anxiety haze. There’s an equation here. One plus one plus one. Grantaire holds a gun on Montparnasse, Enjolras talks Grantaire down, and then what.

 _Get the job done and let’s go_ , Grantaire had said.

For one horrible moment, he watches the world rotate one hundred and twenty degrees. Enjolras replaces Jean-Auguste Loudin with Montparnasse, and it’s a round robin – Enjolras becomes Grantaire. Montparnasse becomes Enjolras.

Grantaire becomes Loudin.

Enjolras doesn’t even think, he twists so that Grantaire is behind his back and he’s looking right at Montparnasse, who has the revolver held casually in his hand.

“Step aside,” Montparnasse says, but doesn’t raise Jean-Auguste’s painfully gaudy pistol.

“No,” Enjolras says simply, gaping at Montparnasse. “What are you _doing_?”

“He fucking _shot me_ , Enjolras,” Montparnasse shouts.

“You’re _fine_ , let it go,” Enjolras snaps.

“He couldn’t make this shot anyway,” Grantaire says. He sounds completely exhausted.

Enjolras remembers running out of their apartment, chasing down an invader, and Montparnasse killing him with one single impossibly perfect shot. Montparnasse had thought nothing of it, beyond his constant self-impressed attitude.

“Yes he can,” Enjolras says.

“ _Move_ , Enjolras,” Montparnasse says. “Don’t make me kill you too.”

“You don’t think this is kind of an overreaction?” Enjolras asks, baffled.

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say, because Montparnasse pulls the revolver’s hammer back, capable of killing with nothing but a twitch of his finger. “Not the merciful type,” Montparnasse says. “You gonna move or not?”

“You’re not going to hurt anyone,” Enjolras says firmly. “Nobody’s going to get hurt.”

“Lying to yourself most of all, aren’t you,” Montparnasse says, and raises the gun. “What do you think, should I count to three?”

“He’s not bluffing, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and pushes Enjolras, but Enjolras refuses to budge. He grabs Grantaire’s hands and holds him by the wrist, keeps his arms wrapped around Enjolras’ waist.

“It’s going to be fine,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire shouts, “You’re _high_ , Enjolras, you got through an airplane flight on this shit, you’re not-”

“One,” Montparnasse says.

“It’s going to be okay, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and looks right into Montparnasse’s eyes. “Because I can do math.”

One, and one, and one. Their parts are turned. In no scenario in that room did Grantaire come even a little bit close to dying. And if Montparnasse is him in this equation, there’s a threat of injury, but not death. Enjolras can take that chance.

The corners are blurred and smudged like Grantaire’s charcoal, but at least he can still see them.

“Why are you doing this?” Enjolras asks.

“Two,” Montparnasse says, and doesn’t even look tempted to give an answer.

“You’re patient,” Enjolras says, frowning. “You’re professional. You’re – that’s it, isn’t it.” Enjolras holds Grantaire’s wrists tightly, probably tight enough to hurt. “You’re _professional_. Of course. You’re supposed to do what, kill Grantaire?”

“I have to,” Montparnasse says, but cuts himself off. He says it with that same expressive blandness, where trying to keep something in is as good as screaming.

“There’s something else to what Reichard owes you, isn’t there,” Enjolras says. “Because you _have to_ do it. What do you want?” He frowns. “What does he have?”

“I _will_ kill Grantaire,” Montparnasse says – and that’s why it was always _your boy_ , isn’t it? He says Grantaire’s name like it’s meaningless, like he’s reading it off of a list. And Enjolras believes him completely. He’d kill Grantaire without another thought.

“But you won’t kill me,” Enjolras says. “You’ll hurt me, but you won’t kill me, and I’d never let you anywhere near him. In the process, Grantaire would find a way to kill you. Nobody wins, and you never get whatever it is that Reichard is holding ransom.”

“Never broken a contract in my entire life, and this isn’t one to risk,” Montparnasse says.

“Yes it is, because right now, you have an ally,” Enjolras says.

“Who I’m holding at gunpoint, and trying to kill his husband,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras just shrugs.

“God you’re weird,” Grantaire mutters.

“If someone had Grantaire, I’d do exactly what you’re doing,” Enjolras says honestly. If someone had told him two days ago that they’d deliver Grantaire safe and unharmed to him and all he had to do was kill someone he’d never met, Enjolras would do it in a heartbeat. “But you _don’t_ have to, don’t you see? You’re not alone in this.”

Montparnasse watches him with something cold and rigid in his eyes, silent for a long moment.

And then, he drops his arm. Montparnasse clicks the hammer on Jean-Auguste’s revolver back with the casual speed of an experienced user, and just as quickly pops the cylinder out, starts pulling bullets out of the chambers one by one. “Swear to anything and everything holy, Enjolras, if-”

“It won’t go bad,” Enjolras says firmly. “What do you need?”

Montparnasse tosses the gun onto the floor with a sigh. It thuds to the wood, heavy and final. “Not much. Alibi, and a knife,” he says. “And help getting my reputation back. If that can happen.”

“Alibi is easy enough,” he says, and lets go of Grantaire’s arms so he can turn to look at him. “Do you have a knife we can borrow?”

“Oh no, no, lover boy, you’re taking your boy home and leaving this alone,” Montparnasse says. “Either of you gets near Reichard and you’re dead. If I don’t get to shoot you, neither does he.”

“I’ve got a knife,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras isn’t surprised in the least when Grantaire simply pulls one out from a boot and throws it right into the wall next to Montparnasse, who doesn’t even flinch. He just coolly regards Grantaire.

And then Montparnasse winks at him.

He plucks the knife out of the wall and tucks it into his jacket. “You’re buying me a Ferrari tomorrow,” Montparnasse tells them, and walks out.

“I don’t like him,” Grantaire says.

“I figured,” Enjolras says, and pulls his coat off, quickly draping it on Grantaire’s shoulders.

“You don’t – I’m _fine_ , it’s disgustingly warm, the air is an octopus, I promise,” Grantaire says, which doesn’t make much sense, but there’s still that glaze in his eyes, that same unnaturally dilated pupil. He frowns, and grabs at Enjolras’ shirt. “I don’t want to go anywhere again. I mean, I didn’t mean to do it, Enjolras, I didn’t, but-”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says, and smiles at him, because he’s okay. Grantaire is alive and not quite happy or healthy but he’s okay, or he will be. He hugs Grantaire, and holds him tight and warm, and safe.

Enjolras is going to make everything okay.


	8. L'appartement de Loudin | L'ultime salle de Reichard.

Strolling through Paris with Reichard is an exercise in patience. Combeferre doesn’t _stroll_. Generally, his stride is quick and soft, a quiet and efficient movement.

“You see life like it’s something to rush through, like you have to _fight it_ , Combeferre,” Reichard tells him. He shakes his head like Combeferre’s unexpressed frustration is disappointing to him. “It’s to be dissected. Why do you think I take my time about walking?”

“You’re dying of cancer,” Combeferre says.

“Not quite,” Reichard says.

Combeferre doesn’t give Reichard the satisfaction of gritting his teeth. “Regardless, you aren't taking your time. Not really. You do this because this is as fast as you can move, and bullshit well enough to make it seem intentional,” he says.

“I was shot in the hip when I was forty-six,” Reichard says. “It taught me a valuable-”

“Stop trying to mentor me,” Combeferre snaps. But he shouldn’t be snapping, snapping means he's letting Reichard get to him. He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. Just as slowly as they’re walking. “You said yourself that you know I’m going to kill you. There’s no point in trying to talk to me.”

“You’re going to die too, eventually, so is there a point in killing me?” Reichard asks. He shakes his head. “My point, Combeferre, is that you continue to ignore the big picture. You see cause and effect and the twists that take you between the two, but the environment, Combeferre, you need to see the _environment_.”

Combeferre is very tempted to give up on the painting and finding out where Enjolras and Grantaire are so he could just murder Reichard. _Patience_ , Combeferre reminds himself. “You’re trying to make me some sort of legacy, trying to leave something behind,” he says. “I don’t know why you picked me for your final act.”

“Don’t you?” Reichard asks.

He really doesn’t. The most realistic thing Combeferre can come up with is that Reichard looked at his revenge plans, realized Combeferre would involve himself, and decided it was convenient.

“If you were another man, this is the part where I’d reveal I’m your biological father,” Reichard says. “Or that I’m your uncle. This is where I’d have some deeper, previously unknown connection to you. But the truth is that I picked you because I like you, Combeferre.”

“And it’s a way to get more time to torture Grantaire,” Combeferre says.

He has no delusions of grandeur here - their duel has been nothing but Reichard stalling. It’s been Reichard manipulating and maneuvering Combeferre and everyone else he could get his claws into so that his other goals could be achieved. There may be some interest he’s developed in Combeferre, some sort of bizarre destructive paternal affection, but Combeferre doesn’t actually care. They both know why Reichard is here.

Reichard sighs, and turns, taking them into a building. He has to unlock the door, and they step into a small stairwell, with an ancient gated elevator planted in the center of the spiraling steps. “You see, Combeferre? See what I mean? The environment. Nothing happens in a vacuum. It’s what you missed.”

Combeferre knows he’s missed something. He doesn’t doubt for a moment that he missed something. He just doesn’t know how big of a _something_ it could be. There’s something to do with the environment, apparently. Something about the world outside of Reichard and ABC. But how much bluffing is Reichard doing? How much out of his depth is he?

Reichard steps into the elevator, shutting the gate behind Combeferre when he steps through. “And what are you thinking now, Combeferre?”

He goes with honesty. Combeferre has nothing to lose. “I’m trying to decide how many moves behind I am.”

“Oh, Combeferre,” Reichard says, and shakes his head. “This isn’t a – what, you’re probably going with chess? It’s nothing so simple as that.” He presses a button, and the elevator shudders into motion. “For one, chess pieces don’t scream.”

\---

Enjolras keeps a tight hold of Grantaire, sitting carefully in the chair by the window with Grantaire curled across his lap, nose pressed into his neck as his body hunches in on itself. He looks ready to snap apart, like his spine is a taut string in a hurricane.

“What can I do?” Enjolras asks him. “There has to be something I can do.”

“I’m not sure where I am,” Grantaire says quietly.

“We’re in Paris again,” Enjolras says. “And we’re going to stay here. No more running around Europe, no more-”

“Don’t you ever do that,” Grantaire says, firm and frantic, and lunges upwards to bite Enjolras’ ear. It’s sharp and _painful_ , nothing playful about it. Enjolras grits his teeth, fighting the urge to shout. Grantaire lets Enjolras’ ear go quickly enough, ducking down to press words against his jaw. “Don’t. You’d stagnate. You need to be _Enjolras_ , more than anything else, that’s what you need to be.”

Enjolras slides his fingers through Grantaire’s hair and tries to keep his breathing as steady as possible when Grantaire starts biting at his neck. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asks. “Where did you go? Why did-”

He’s cut off with a kiss, Grantaire pressing his lips against Enjolras’ almost sloppily. There’s a kind of hazy urgency to the way Grantaire’s hands press against his shoulders, and he doesn’t object when Grantaire pulls away again so he can shift again, straddling Enjolras’ lap. 

“We met here,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras nods. “You and I talked here for the first time, and I never even thought about not walking out with you. I never want to leave you. Never.”

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire kisses him again, pressing his fingers against Enjolras’ chest and sliding them upwards. The fabric of his shirt bunches above Grantaire’s nails, dragging upwards. “Not for now,” he says, and it sounds like a resigned sigh more than agreement, as if he’s just waiting for it to happen.

It’s taken two years to get Grantaire to a place where he doesn’t _doubt_ , but that was the entire point of this, from what Enjolras can see. The entire point was to take Grantaire away and hurt him, and Enjolras doesn’t know why, but he’s going to make everything okay.

Enjolras wants to tell Grantaire he loves him and have Grantaire simply accept it, but there are some things that Grantaire will never be able to take at face value. Deep down, he hates himself to an extent that Enjolras will _never_ understand, like Grantaire sees something unforgivable laced inside every cell of his body.

He can’t say I love you. Enjolras already knows that.

It’s been a long time, but this, he knows how to handle.

“I’m never giving you up,” Enjolras tells him instead, and he means to kiss Grantaire’s forehead, nice and soothing, but Grantaire doesn’t seem interested. He digs his fingernails into Enjolras’ chest and pushes himself up tight against Enjolras, catches Enjolras’ mouth with his own. It’s whip-fast, going from what Enjolras intends to be soft and reassuring to Enjolras tightening his fingers and grabbing a fistful of Grantaire’s hair so he has something to hold on to as Grantaire kisses him.

There’s no question of who is leading. Grantaire’s fingernails dance between their torsos as his lips and tongue toy with Enjolras’ mouth, like he’s intentionally being as sadistically teasing as possible. He means to infuriate Enjolras, and it’s _working_. Enjolras keeps a tight hold on the back of Grantaire’s head and lets his other hand slide down Grantaire’s spine.

Grantaire has to pull away eventually, and Enjolras fights the urge to keep him there, to give his hair a sharp tug and say, _No_. He tries not to control him. He tries to let Grantaire be his own person. He tries very, very hard to not want to give him orders and expect them to be met.

“Can I?” Grantaire asks, eyes glazed, but more natural. His pupils are still a mismatch for the light in the room, but Enjolras can see _Grantaire_ in them. He sounds close to frantic. “Enjolras, I’m so – can I? Please?”

He doesn’t know what Grantaire is asking for, couldn’t even guess at it, but there’s not actually any question. Still, caution is important right now, so Enjolras doesn't say yes. He says, “Slowly.”

Grantaire leans back, away from Enjolras, and Enjolras barely has time to frown before Grantaire starts undoing the buttons on his Montparnasse-chosen shirt, slowly. As directed. Grantaire looks like he’s concentrating very hard, but Enjolras can't help himself. He ends up playing with his hair, only releasing his hold for as long as it takes to let Grantaire pull his shirt off. He loves Grantaire’s hair. He loves Grantaire.

His shirt gets balled up and tossed across the floor, and Grantaire digs his broken fingernails into Enjolras’ lower back. He drags them down Enjolras’ skin, rough and jagged, and Enjolras hisses at the feeling. It’s an opening that Grantaire takes immediately, nearly smashing their teeth together as he latches their mouths together, tongue immediately dragging along the roof of Enjolras’ mouth in a way that they _both_ know drives him crazy. 

And those _fucking_ fingernails bite their way beneath the waistband of Enjolras' pants, skimming around his hips until Grantaire’s thumbs are pressed tightly against his fly. He pushes down, forces the fabric to pull tight on Enjolras’ interested cock, and Enjolras can do nothing but groan into Grantaire’s mouth.

Grantaire is taking him apart.

“Tell me,” Enjolras says, because he knows Grantaire has something to say. His shoulders are tight, and his hands shake slightly, and it’s the look of a man about ready to break.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire whispers, and Enjolras doesn’t have time to ask what he means, because Grantaire suddenly looks at him with a completely unfamiliar glint in his eyes, looking wild and feral and straight into Enjolras’ stunned eyes. Under the sharp intensity of that look, Enjolras is completely mute. “I never deserved you, but I’m going to make you happy. If you want me, I’m going to make you happy.”

This is not right.

This is not right _at all_.

\---

“Never forget people are living and dying based on how clever you are,” Reichard tells Combeferre. The elevator shakes as it rises slowly. The stairs would definitely be faster than this. Then again, considering Reichard’s regular rate of movement, this might be an improvement. Most of all, Combeferre doesn’t want to be stuck in here listening to Reichard’s endless superiority complex.

 _But is it a complex?_ Combeferre can’t help but wonder. He knows he’s missed something. Reichard would be doing this regardless of how big a thing he missed, but how much of something did he miss? How badly has he fucked up?

“You’re excellent at the detail work, Combeferre, you truly are,” Reichard says. “It’s your strongest area, really. If I hadn’t been your opponent, you would’ve found me in, god, no time at all, wouldn’t you?”

“Weren’t you just saying you’re not an opponent?” Combeferre asks, and crosses his arms, giving Reichard the most unimpressed look he can manage. “Get to the point, Reichard.”

“Stroll, Combeferre. Stroll,” Reichard says. He stretches his arms out to the side as much as he can in the very slow elevator, as if to encompass everything that Combeferre is neither looking at nor giving a fuck about. “The fine print, you’ve mastered. They’ve trained you into it. But you’re a wolf, not a scent hound. _Look_.”

“I’m going to punch you if you keep this up,” Combeferre tells him honestly.

Reichard sighs. “It’s not a game, Combeferre,” he says. “There aren’t rules, and there are _never_ just two players.”

He knows.

Fuck, Reichard knows Cosette is important. Reichard knows that Cosette knows _something_. He hasn’t just completely discredited her like Combeferre had so, so stupidly assumed he would. He underestimated Reichard just as he’d hoped Reichard would do to Cosette, and Reichard undoubtedly has more information than Combeferre.

He’s outclassed, _again_.

What is it that Cosette has? Combeferre thinks as quickly as he possibly can. Reichard needed Cosette stopped because she was getting too close to stopping whatever Reichard’s endgame is. The endgame is almost definitely something to do with Grantaire (and therefore Enjolras). She’s been tracking Grantaire ever since the museum fire.

But this isn’t new information.

No. No, Combeferre wasn’t wrong. Cosette isn’t who Reichard is talking about. Combeferre read him correctly when it came to old-school sensibilities and the inherent sexism that it seems anyone over the age of forty has ingrained in their brains. Cosette is still his wild card.

Combeferre thinks, _But what does this mean if it isn’t Cosette?_

He missed something.

He missed some _one_.

Combeferre stares into Reichard’s honey-brown eyes, his calm, superior expression, how he does a very good job of looking like a cross between an old thug and someone’s doting grandfather.

No. No, there’s not a third player.

There’s a fourth.

The stereotypical psychopath is remorseless, violent, all-around terrible at long-term choices and self-control, and has a parasitic lifestyle. They’re also usually intelligent and charming, making them some of the most effective liars the world has ever seen.

“Montparnasse,” Combeferre says, and the way Reichard’s eyes immediately light up with delight is all the confirmation Combeferre needs. “It's Montparnasse. He’s with Enjolras. He’s with Enjolras right now, and he’s working for you.”

“Montparnasse working _for_ me?” Reichard’s lips quirk into a smile, and the elevator squeals itself to a stop. “Montparnasse doesn’t work _for_ anyone. You draw up a contract, pay for his services, and pray you don’t miss anything.”

“You didn’t pay,” Combeferre says.

Reichard opens the elevator’s gates. “Of course I haven’t,” he says, as if he’s offended at the thought, and steps out. “The job's not done yet. It’s payment upon completion, and he still has some outstanding aspects of the contract to take care of.”

“I could outbid you,” Combeferre says.

He can. Combeferre has access to every single member of ABC’s bank information, and not one of them would object to using their funds right now. Combeferre doesn’t doubt for a moment that Reichard has a massive amount of money on hand, but if Combeferre _did_ need to stretch, moving into ABC’s parents’ bank accounts would make anything seem insignificant. Combeferre could beat him. Combeferre can most definitely defeat him.

“Oh, no you can’t,” Reichard says, grinning, and leads Combeferre deeper into the building. It’s not a nice building. Paint is peeling off of the doorframes, but the floor is clean and recently swept. Someone cares, but they don’t care _that_ much. He strolls to a door and pulls a key out of his pocket, practically humming. “I’m not paying him money. It’s something he values far more than that.”

“What would that thing be?” Combeferre asks.

“You should be worrying about other things right now, I think,” Reichard says, quickly unlocking the door and opening it, smiling at Combeferre and swinging an arm wide in a parody of warm welcomes. “Please, Combeferre. Come in.”

“You first,” Combeferre says.

“Oh, no,” Reichard says. His smile is more tooth than friendly, bright and sharp. “I _insist_.”

\---

Grantaire’s hands are cold against Enjolras’ skin, but his mouth is hot and intoxicating, and Enjolras can barely think as Grantaire pulls his lips and tongue away from Enjolras’ mouth and slides down to nip at his collarbone. His thumbs are rubbing in tiny tight circles beneath the waistband of Enjolras’ pants, and Grantaire keeps shifting, keeps spreading his legs wider and wider as his thumbs get closer and closer to the zipper of Enjolras’ pants.

“I can be what you want,” Grantaire tells him, breathing the words hot against his skin. “You’re – fuck, Enjolras, _fuck_ , I just want you to throw me down and-”

“You don’t have to,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t know how to continue the statement, doesn’t know how to even _begin_ to say this. He swallows, tries to clear his throat and remove the desperate urge to whimper as Grantaire’s palm brushes oh so innocently over his cock, and tries again. “Grantaire. What you want is what I want.”

“I want you to just pin me to the bed and _use me_ ,” Grantaire says, and his voice is shaking. It’s not arousal beneath the words. Not right now. “I’d – you’d feel so good, I’d make it so fucking good for you, Enjolras, I promise.”

This isn’t right. Enjolras knows this isn’t right. There’s something to this entire situation that makes Enjolras feel like something cold is crawling up his spine, and he gets a grip on Grantaire’s beautiful, beautiful hands. He lifts them to his mouth, kisses each hand’s palm as tenderly as he can.

Grantaire seems to be taking the absence of his hands in stride, and has therefore managed to shift and press his knee against Enjolras’ cock, rocking against him, and Enjolras has no idea what’s going on or where it’s going or what the fuck Grantaire is thinking. What’s he doing, what’s he feeling, what’s he _expecting?_ No matter what the answers are, it doesn’t seem like anything healthy.

“Stop,” Enjolras says. “ _Stop_ , Grantaire.”

Grantaire does, immediately, and he looks absolutely _devastated_. He looks like Enjolras stabbed him. He looks like Enjolras just pushed him down a staircase. He looks hurt and betrayed in a way that stops Enjolras' heart for one terrifying moment.

Enjolras fucked up. He definitely, definitely fucked up.

“You don’t want me,” Grantaire whispers.

Shit. Shit, shit, _fuck_ , Enjolras scrambles to think, to plan, and comes up with nothing but the urge to make everything better.

“I do,” Enjolras says. He means for it to sound reassuring and easy and confident, wants the words to be certain and strong, irrefutable, but instead he sounds rushed and frantic. Which he _is_ , but he doesn’t want Grantaire to know that. “I do, Grantaire, I always want you, I always will-”

“Then fuck me,” Grantaire says.

Grantaire is smart, and knows him far too well. He's had two years to learn how to toy with Enjolras, enabled precision strikes, given Grantaire intimate knowledge of what makes Enjolras twitch. Instead of pulling his hands away, Grantaire presses his left index finger against Enjolras’ lips. It’s almost delicate when he slips the tip inside of Enjolras’ mouth, and god, Grantaire _knows_ Enjolras loves this, knows Enjolras is so dangerously in love with everything to do with his hands.

And there’s no harm in this, is there? There can’t be. Enjolras can’t see how it could be. Grantaire looks he just came up choking from the ocean, and Enjolras will fix that. He will. He releases Grantaire’s hands and opens his mouth, and gets as much of Grantaire’s fingers into his mouth as he can and tries (and fails) to not grab on to Grantaire’s shoulders and think, _Mine._

“Tell me what to do, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. Enjolras pulls away from relearning every single ridge and crease of the skin on Grantaire’s fingers to watch Grantaire more intently. Enjolras’ hands are clenched roughly against his bare shoulders, and that isn’t what his hands should be doing. Grantaire’s eyes are wild and lost, and that isn’t what they should be, either. “ _Enjolras_ , please, please, tell me-”

“Shhh,” Enjolras says, and rubs a hand up and down Grantaire’s back. He tries to be soothing somehow, tries to be warm and understanding and a good supportive husband, but that is really obviously not the right action because Grantaire pulls away entirely. He stands up and stumbles away from Enjolras, legs shaking, and Enjolras has a moment of complete _terror_.

Grantaire is leaving again. Grantaire is going to get up and walk out and never come back because Enjolras fucked up somehow, and why didn’t he just do what Grantaire asked? Fuck, what’s _wrong_ with him? Grantaire is the one who knows when Enjolras is fucking up and Grantaire’s leaving again Grantaire is _leaving_.

There are options, but Enjolras can’t think of any of them, can’t think beyond panic, and he stands up. He can’t _think_ , and Grantaire’s steps are becoming more and more steady, and Enjolras panics. He says, “Don’t go.”

“Make up your fucking mind, Enjolras!” Grantaire shouts at him, but he turns to do it, thank god. Grantaire looks ready to attack, but he’s _looking_ , and Enjolras meets his eyes without flinching. “Do I have to grovel?”

“Of course you don't,” Enjolras says.

“Then what do you want from me?!” Grantaire asks, practically begging. “You have to want something, Enjolras, fuck, there has to be _some_ point to me.”

Grantaire says it like Enjolras isn’t meant to hear. Or maybe Grantaire is the one who isn’t supposed to hear. 

Enjolras can’t even think. He needs to think, need to assess the situation and understand what exactly Grantaire is saying and how to _fix it_ , but all he can concentrate on is the way Grantaire’s entire body is shaking. It’s subtle, more like an ever-present shudder, as if Grantaire is trapped in his own internal blizzard.

“I want _you_. I want your life,” Enjolras says, and doesn’t know what he’s doing. He has no idea what he’s doing. He has no plan. He just fucking _answers_ , lets go of his mind and talks. “I want _everything_ from you. I want to be the last thought in your head when you fall asleep and the first thing you feel when you wake up. I want your mind. I want your _soul_. I want to infect every cell in your body and tear apart anything that even thinks about hurting you.”

Grantaire says, “You want to own someone.”

“Owning implies purchasing, or me acquiring you somehow,” Enjolras says. “You don’t belong to me. You belong _with_ me.”

And that’s it, isn’t it? Enjolras watches Grantaire’s eyes, tries to figure out what exactly is running through his gloriously beautiful brain, and can’t. All Enjolras can read is some sort of unspoken desperation, although what it’s about, what’s causing it, how to _fix it_ , Enjolras doesn’t know.

“You belong with me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, and it sounds right this time. His voice is confident and resolved and like someone who could help support the weight of whatever is crushing Grantaire like this.

He holds a hand out to Grantaire. “Let’s go home.”

\---

Combeferre can’t see any immediate threat when he walks into the room, not that there’s much to see. The windows cast just enough light for Combeferre to get a good idea of what he’s looking at, but there are curtains over the glass, casting a dim grey light over everything. There’s a well-equipped kitchen directly next to the door, but that’s not what Combeferre's eyes pick out. They focus intently on the window, and then the table.

It’s a large studio apartment, in comparison to most, but a studio nonetheless. The only thing that keeps it from feeling like a true studio is the absence of a bed or anything built for comfort beyond the two armchairs both tilted towards the wall.

One large wooden table dominates the entire apartment, with three computers humming away on one side of it and the rest completely empty, save for one simple brown cardboard box. It’s big enough to hold ten particularly daunting textbooks, but Combeferre is more than a little certain that’s not what’s inside. It’s not big enough to fit the painting, though.

There’s no point in just loitering in front of the door, and there’s no obvious threat in the room, so Combeferre decides his primary objective right now is better lighting. He needs to see everything without these dim shadows.

“You see, Combeferre, life comes down to the small things, and the big things,” Reichard says, and Combeferre doesn’t let himself tense when he hears the door close. He opens the curtains, and the flood of light leaves him blinking for a moment. “You shouldn’t ignore either type. You wonder about whether or not there’s a threat in this room, which is good. You forget to question why I brought you here, which is bad.”

“If the painting isn’t here, I’m just going to kill you,” Combeferre says honestly. The only reason to keep him alive is to figure out what his plan with Grantaire and Enjolras is. Taking Jean-Auguste’s bloodspatter away from him is nothing but a glorious bit of spiteful revenge.

“And nobody would ever trace it back to you?” Reichard asks. He sighs, and walks forward, towards the box. Combeferre approaches carefully. “You don’t live in a vacuum. _Consequences_ , Combeferre. You rely on public opinion keeping you immune to anything coming back to bite you.”

They rely on public opinion, and Cosette.

But there’s something to this. There’s something shifting in his mind, something Combeferre can barely grasp at.

“Oh, Combeferre,” Reichard says, and he looks so very disappointed. “Why did I set the museum on fire?”

Combeferre says, “Fake Grantaire’s death, steal the painting, get-”

“No, no, _no_ , why did I set the museum on fire?” Richard asks, and slams a fist down on the table. It’s hard enough to make the entire table shake, a massive _bang_ snapping through the air, and Reichard is almost snarling. “Think, Combeferre, _think_ , why did I bother to set a fucking museum on fire? Why didn’t I do this covertly? Why didn’t I do this in a simple, easy, clean way? You’d never heard of me before this – that’s my modus operandi, that’s how I always worked until now, so _why?”_

“Because we don’t live in a vacuum,” Combeferre says, and it jolts in to him.

The press swarming them. Candlelit vigils. Conspiracy theories, demands for information, a country both angry and mourning, and they don’t live in a vacuum, not in the least. They’ll have questions. They’ll demand answers. They’ll _investigate_ , and they don’t live in a vacuum, and Grantaire has killed how many people? Three? With Enjolras running around with an attractive young man who is most definitely not Grantaire?

Their near-immunity depends on public opinion.

And Cosette, who Reichard has a gun on right now.

“Oh god,” Combeferre says, and Reichard’s face breaks into a triumphant grin.

He’s obviously about to say something, eyes a ruthless gold, mouth opening with a smug tilt to the lips, but doesn’t get a word out when the window shatters with a deafening crash. It’s impossible to hear beyond the cascade of glass, and Combeferre ducks down beneath the table as shards slice through the air. When he twists and looks at where the windowpane once was, he sees the silhouette of a man crouched low on the windowsill as glass crashes onto the floor.

\---

Grantaire doesn’t move. If anything, he looks like Enjolras is playing some cruel trick on him, like Enjolras has made a joke at his expense and Grantaire can do nothing but quirk the side of his mouth into a strange semblance of a smile.

“We don’t belong together, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“Yes we do,” Enjolras tells him, and dares to step forward, towards Grantaire. For every step forward Enjolras takes, Grantaire moves backwards. It’s a slow chase across the room as Enjolras speaks. “I don’t know what you think you did, or where everything went wrong. I don’t know what Reichard told you. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does,” Grantaire says, voice rising, high and breathy. His eyes are wide.

“Not to us,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire’s back hits the wall.

There’s room for Grantaire to move away. He could slide to the side. He could still move forward and push back. He could turn and walk straight out the door. 

Grantaire does none of these things. 

He presses himself back into the wall, swallowing, and waits. He says, “I’ve never been anything close to healthy, and. I’m worse now, Enjolras. You shouldn’t – don’t say it, I _know_ , okay. I don’t want you to want me.”

“Deal with it. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to,” Enjolras says, because he is going to be ruthless. “What do you want? Should I tell you I love you? That I know I’d waste away without you? Should I apologize? Should I beg?”

“Don’t,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras stops walking, looking Grantaire in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Whatever it was, I'm sorry.”

“Stop. You didn’t do anything,” Grantaire says.

“I get to want things,” Enjolras says, and wishes Grantaire had a shirt on. He settles for a belt loop on his pants, reaches across the small distance between them, and tugs lightly. There’s not nearly enough strength to it to make Grantaire physically pulled forward. It’s nothing but Grantaire and a firm suggestion that has Grantaire moving forward.

Grantaire moves willingly along with Enjolras’ tugging, until he’s close enough that Enjolras can feel his breath. He doesn’t release the belt loop – he keeps as much of a hold on Grantaire as he can, hooks a thumb into the fabric and slides a hand back into Grantaire’s hair, where it belongs.

“I don’t want to keep having to chase you,” Enjolras says. “I want you here with me. I want you to be happy with me. But most of all, I want you _with me_.”

Grantaire tries to look away, tries to duck his head, tries to turn away, and Enjolras is done with letting him run. It’s not gentle, and Enjolras immediately wants to say _I’m sorry_ , wants to apologize and be soothing, wants to make everything better, but doesn’t. That isn’t what is needed. He watches Grantaire hiss in pain, because Enjolras keeps his grip on Grantaire’s hair as absolute and unshakeable as possible.

“You shouldn’t want me,” Grantaire says, barely a whisper.

“I never give a fuck about should, and you don't either, not really,” Enjolras says, and keeps his thumb through Grantaire’s belt loop while he lightly touches his fingertips to Grantaire’s hip. Grantaire's skin is warm. “Who cares what we should be. Whatever they told you, whatever _he_ told you, I don’t care. I don’t _care_ , Grantaire, just.” Enjolras has to stop and bite the inside of his cheek because he has to be rock, he has to be something that Grantaire can’t even imagine there’s a way around. “Come home.”

Enjolras suddenly sees what he should’ve seen far, far earlier. There are tears in Grantaire’s eyes, and Enjolras wouldn’t believe for a minute that they’re from the pain that comes with trying to get away from Enjolras’ hands.

“You want to come home, and I want you to come home, so why don’t you?” Enjolras asks. He doesn’t know if he means it as a question or a demand or, fuck, he doesn’t know, he just hurts and knows Grantaire does too. “We’re meant to be together.”

“They lied to you,” Grantaire says, and he brings a hand up to his eyes, as if covering them will make it all go away. It’s what desperate, scared little children do. If you can’t see the problem, it doesn’t exist. “I – I didn’t know either, because I’m so fucking _stupid_ \- ”

“Does the lie put you in danger?” Enjolras asks, intentionally cutting him off. “Is anyone in danger here?”

“No,” Grantaire answers, and both of his hands are now covering his face. “Not that I know, but _Enjolras_ , you don’t understand.”

“I don’t need to,” Enjolras says, and believes it. “Let’s go home.”

“I can’t,” Grantaire says. Even with the hand in his hair, he shakes his head, and he’s starting to cry now. His shoulders are tense, as huched in on himself as he can get, and fuck it hurts to even look at. “I can’t, Enjolras, I can’t, I can’t-”

“You can walk, you can move, nothing’s keeping us from getting out of this building and going to the Musain,” Enjolras says. “If you need me to, I’ll fucking _carry you_ , I swear to god. I will knock buildings down for you.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and it sounds like a desperate plea, like someone lost at sea begging for help. “I can’t. I don’t – you could fucking teleport and I still couldn’t, still won’t.”

 _“Why?!”_ Enjolras shouts, and immediately regrets it, because what was steady silent tears turns into shaking. Grantaire starts shaking, choking out what attempts at breath he can make as his body turns into itself and he starts fucking _sobbing_.

Any and all rigidity in Enjolras evaporates immediately, a flash burn that leaves Enjolras wrapping his arms around Grantaire again because he’s crying, and a crying Grantaire leaves Enjolras as nothing but a desperate mess of _I need to make it better_. He shouldn’t have shouted, he shouldn’t have pushed, he shouldn’t have done whatever made this happen. It’s his fault, he’ll figure it out later, he’ll never do it again, and he doesn’t say a single word of what he’s thinking. He gets a dangerously tight grip on Grantaire, crushes him against his chest.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Enjolras says, _babbles_ , and rocks him, just slightly.

He has no idea what to think of how Grantaire just stays there, rigid, and it’s so completely wrong. It’s like he has nothing but a rag doll in his arms.

Grantaire whispers something into his shoulder, gasps something incoherent against Enjolras’ collarbone.

“I can’t hear you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and tries to remember what people do. He’s never had to work with a Grantaire like this. Grantaire is many things, but this creature, this limp crying impassive body in his arms, is nothing he’s ever seen. He goes still. He goes empty sometimes, on the worst days. But he never, ever, just... _exists_ like this.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers. That, at least, Enjolras knows.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, loud enough that Enjolras doesn’t have to strain to hear it. He sounds like he’s being slowly crushed to death, and Enjolras tries to hold him even tighter, keeps one arm around Grantaire’s waist and one brushing his shoulder blades and prays he can find some way to help him. He must.

“I’ve got you, I’m going to make it okay,” Enjolras says, and begs any higher power there might be that it won’t be a lie.

“Enjolras, I’m broken,” Grantaire says through the tears. He’s heavy, far heavier than he has any right to be, as if his own soul is trying to drag his body down.

“No you aren’t,” Enjolras says.

“Stop fucking _believing_ , Enjolras, I’m _broken_ , I’m not what you want me to be,” Grantaire says.

“What the _fuck_ do you think I want you to be?” Enjolras demands, and it’s a bad idea. It has to be a bad idea, but he pushes Grantaire those final few steps, pins him to the wall with one hand and uses the other to force Grantaire to look him in the eye.

He might have Grantaire’s eyes pointed towards him, but Enjolras can tell he isn’t seeing anything.

“You want Grantaire,” Grantaire says, and if this is some sort of brainwashing bullshit, Enjolras is going to dedicate his entire life to getting Grantaire back. But it isn’t, because Grantaire says, “But I’m just. I’m just _pieces_ , Enjolras.”

“I always will,” Enjolras tells him. “I want _you_ , alright? What do you want, Grantaire.”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says, and he starts shaking his head again, pushing his back against the wall, and Enjolras isn’t fast enough. He should’ve seen it coming, and Grantaire bashes his own head against the wall, intentionally snaps his skull back, and Enjolras should’ve kept a hold on him. “I don’t know, I don’t _know_ -”

Enjolras gets a hand onto the back of Grantaire’s head as quickly as possible, but he only gets there in time to stop the third slam of head against wall. “What do you _always_ want?”

He just prays Grantaire hasn’t managed to give himself a concussion, with how hard he was self-abusing. Enjolras is terrified for the moment he has to see if it’s sweat or blood he’s feeling beneath his fingers.

“What do you always want, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and moves forward to lightly press his lips against Grantaire’s, leaning his forehead against Grantaire’s. He’s stopped crying, but when Enjolras looks into his eyes, there’s still a shattered kind of haze to him. “Say it.”

Grantaire obeys.

“You,” he whispers, and when he blinks, slow and heavy as if it’s almost too much weight to manage, Enjolras knows it’ll be okay. He'll make it okay.

\---

Combeferre doesn’t get a good look at what’s happening, too busy trying to process the scene – how did the man shatter the window like this, how did he get outside of the window, how did he know the right room, how did he know Combeferre would be here, _who is this are they going to hurt me_ – to react when the man hops through the window and rushes forward.

He doesn’t rush towards Combeferre, though. The bronze-colored shoes aim right towards where Reichard is pressed tightly against a wall, and for some reason, Combeferre thinks, _Stop him._

By the time Combeferre manages to safely scramble out from beneath the table, the man has Reichard pressed against the wall. Reichard’s toes are barely holding his weight, the man’s grip on his throat keeping him right where he wants him. The hand that isn’t busy keeping Reichard’s feet scrambling for purchase and gasping for air has a knife held casually in it.

“Don’t talk now,” the man warns, and turns away from Reichard to glance at Combeferre.

Combeferre hasn’t seen a man this beautiful since Enjolras in sunlight, so he has a good guess of who he’s dealing with.

“Montparnasse, I presume,” Combeferre says, and stays very still. Montparnasse’s hands are wrapped in latex gloves. Whatever he’s planning to do, he’s determined to not leave fingerprints.

“Sounding real fancy there,” Montparnasse says, blatant mockery in the words. “You’re in my man’s crew, yeah?”

Combeferre frowns.

“Jesus, gotta do all the work,” Montparnasse says, and clears his throat, adopting a perfect impersonation of Combeferre’s voice. “I _presume_ you are one of the individuals affiliated with Enjolras, or am I mistaken in this assumption?”

Reichard grabs on to Montparnasse’s arm, and it doesn’t seem to even bother him.

“I am. I’m Combeferre,” he says.

“Ah, the right hand,” Montparnasse says, and it’s almost absentminded how he releases Reichard. The older man drops heavy against the wall, coughing. “You talking to him?”

“I was, yes,” Combeferre says, and he means to question Montparnasse, or question Reichard, he means to find _some_ information. Instead, he ends up looking right into Montparnasse’s eyes.

He’s heard a lot about Montparnasse. Looking at him like this, Combeferre believes every word of it.

“Asking anything about people’s safety?” Montparnasse asks.

Combeferre nods, and walks forward, looking at Reichard while keeping Montparnasse in sight. It’s a matter of angles, a simple requirement of walking to stand a cautious distance away from where Montparnasse has Reichard still pinned against the wall with a firm press of his open palm against his heart. “He’s waiting for something, I think he’s waiting for Enjolras to-”

“Happened already, what else,” Montparnasse says.

“We have a contract, Montparnasse,” Reichard says firmly. Somehow, he manages to sound smoothly in control even while coughing and gasping for air. “You can’t-”

“Don’t you fucking quote clauses at me, Reichard, you broke faith,” Montparnasse says, a blatant warning in the words.

Montparnasse is working for Reichard.

And it was so obvious, wasn't it. It was so simple. This should't be remotely surprising.

But then why was he attacked? Is that the breaking of faith he’s talking about? There’s a bloody scarf wrapped tightly around Montparnasse’s thigh, and he doesn’t know what to think of the way Montparnasse stands on a wounded leg like this, let alone how he climbed up the side of the building. Combeferre tries to think beyond that, tries to focus on what he needs _right now_.

He needs Reichard.

He needs to know what Reichard knows, he needs to find out how deeply Montparnasse’s betrayal goes. He needs to know _what's happened_. Combeferre needs to tie Reichard to a chair and interrogate him for hours, wants to pick his brain apart until there’s nothing left inside of his skull.

Combeferre knows he wouldn’t be able to win a fight with Montparnasse. A man capable of holding someone up with one arm like that is strong, and that doesn’t even begin to cover the fact Montparnasse has a knife in hand. Combeferre is ill-equipped. He has weaponry, but field work was never his forte. Combeferre is intelligence, and when he had a mission, he completed it either quietly, or with a deafening explosion. A knife fight is a laughably bad idea.

But he finds himself looking more closely at the knife in Montparnasse’s hand, and his entire body goes rigid. It’s one of Grantaire’s knives.

Montparnasse says, “Ah.”

“Is Grantaire dead?” Combeferre makes himself ask, and tries to figure out how he can kill Montparnasse as quickly as possible.

“Still kicking, sorry to say,” Montparnasse says. “Well, nah, we’ll see how that turns out. On point, anyone else’s life in the balance because of his tongue?”

“Cosette,” Combeferre says.

“Who?” Montparnasse asks, frowning, and then turns to look back at the still-wheezing Reichard. “Killing someone named Cosette?”

Reichard makes a bad decision and says, “The agreement states-”

Montparnasse’s hand drops away from Reichard’s chest, and he steps back. For a moment, Combeferre thinks that Reichard will be free to go. Reichard clearly believes it too, pressing a hand to his undoubtedly aching chest.

It’s another bad decision, because Montparnasse shifts, lashing his leg out, and slams his foot directly on top of Reichard’s hand, once again pinning him to the wall.

“Again. Cosette,” Montparnasse says.

Reichard keeps trying, saying, “It’s written-”

“You go fine print, I do too,” Montparnasse says, the words obviously a warning. “Last time. _Cosette_.”

“She’s fine now,” Reichard gasps out, and glares at Combeferre, as if the entire situation is his fault. His free hand gestures towards Montparnasse. He coughs. “He’s _insane_ , please, Combeferre-”

“That’s just _mean_ ,” Montparnasse says, and takes a moment to pout at Combeferre. He raises a finger, pointing it towards Combeferre. “Don’t try it.”

“Try what?” Combeferre asks.

“Christ. The _smart_ one, he says. Just stand there and look pretty,” Montparnasse says, and turns his attention back to Reichard. He drops his foot. “You talking about me?”

Reichard’s eyes go very, very wide. “No. No, of course not,” he says quickly, and shakes out his hand. He’s smart enough to not reach for the cane, at least. He takes a deep breath. “You’ll never get your payment if you kill me.”

“Couldn’t kill you if I wanted to,” Montparnasse says. “Since you like fine print and all. Can’t kill you. Can’t punch you. Can’t cause intentional brain damage. Can’t do all sorts of shit that’s pretty fucking tempting right now because you were hoping they’d kill me, weren’t you?”

Combeferre thinks quickly, watching the two, because _this_ is the core of the conflict. He remembers hearing about the attack on Montparnasse. Why attack your best piece in the game? Combeferre is far from fully informed, but having a perfectly placed remorseless murderer isn’t something you try to kill.

Reichard knew his value, but would others?

“It was Leclaire,” Combeferre says.

“The boss’s boss,” Montparnasse says, half question, half bitter statement. He only waits for a confirming nod from Combeferre before he sighs and shifts Grantaire’s knife into his other hand. Reichard lets out a long, relieved breath, sagging against the wall. Montparnasse glares at him. “You still wanted his boy to kill me.”

“The opposite, actually,” Reichard says, which, for some bizarre reason, seems to satisfy Montparnasse.

“Alright then,” Montparnasse says, and looks around the room. “Where are they?” He spots the cardboard box, and points towards it. “That them?”

“Yes,” Reichard says. He coughs, clearing his throat one more time. “I think our contract’s concluded, don’t you?”

“Pretty much,” Montparnasse says.

“What was in your contract?” Combeferre asks.

Reichard tilts his head, as if he’s amused, and begins to speak.

He only gets as far as the first vowel before Montparnasse has twisted and grabbed his _tongue_ , thumb and index finger keeping it pinched and dragged outside of Reichard’s teeth, and Combeferre gapes.

“Can’t have this wagging, Reichard,” Montparnasse says. He scolds Reichard with the knife, as if he’s a disappointed mother holding a wooden spoon rather than a murderer with a knife. “And you went fine print, didn’t you.”

Reichard glares at him, but nods firmly. He tries to speak but can’t, gets nothing out beyond saliva and a horrified look.

“All those lines and addendums, you really thought that could keep you safe if I turned on you?” Montparnasse asks, as if it’s completely dumbfounding. Again, Reichard pulls at Montparnasse’s arm. Again, it does nothing but make Montparnasse roll his eyes. “Fine print, Reichard. Blessing and a curse. You missed some things.”

“What are you doing?” Combeferre demands, and he means to step forward. He means to _do something_ , to either stop him or help him or, fuck, Combeferre doesn’t know. He needs to hear what Reichard has to say. He needs to know where the painting is. He needs to know what exactly his plans with Enjolras and Grantaire are.

But Montparnasse gives him a firm, terrifying look, and Combeferre can’t move.

“He didn’t say a single fucking thing about cutting off his tongue,” Montparnasse says, and doesn’t even bother to look as he brings the knife up and almost absentmindedly slices through the thick tissue. You don’t need a tongue to scream, and Combeferre feels like he’s going to be sick at the sound Reichard makes.

He covers his ears, shuts his eyes, and ignores the sounds he can still hear even while humming nonsense, trying to think of absolutely nothing, pretending that he’s just. He’s thirteen. He curls against the wall. He’s playing hide and go seek with Enjolras, because you’re never too old to play hide and seek. It’s a two person game, and he expects it to be Enjolras who finds him, but it isn’t. It’s a boy with curly hair and excited deep brown eyes who taps him on the shoulder, looking right at him and saying, _Hey, can I join? I’m Courfeyrac, I’m new here. Is there room for me?_

And then their two person games were three, because there’s always room for Courfeyrac, and he’s always new to Combeferre, will never stop surprising him in wonderful ways and Combeferre should’ve told him where he was going. Combeferre should’ve _listened to him_ , should’ve listened as Courfeyrac suggested Leclaire’s involvement, as he fretted over public opinion, as he concentrated on the _people_ instead of the money and crimes. Courfeyrac would’ve gotten here a thousand times faster that Combeferre. Courfeyrac gives and gives and gives, and never seems willing to ask for anything in return.

But sometimes he asks Combeferre, and it’s a warm relief, and Combeferre thinks about that. The world is quiet, and there’s a tap on his shoulder, and he’s almost surprised to see it’s not Courfeyrac crouched in front of him.

Combeferre is fairly sure he’s shaking, and hopes Montparnasse can’t see it.

“You killed him,” Combeferre says, feeling strangely faint. Montparnasse has taken off his gloves, though, and that’s a good sign. Combeferre can recognize that, at least. No dirty work anymore. “You killed Reichard, didn’t you.”

“I didn’t kill him, gravity did,” Montparnasse says, and reaches forward to tap a finger to the tip of Combeferre’s nose. “Fine print, smart one. Fine fucking print. Gotta watch out for that shit. Good faith is what saves you, not wording. Which, to final business.”

“You aren’t getting my tongue without a fight,” Combeferre warns him. And he still has weapons. He thinks. Fuck, Combeferre can’t remember, he just keeps staring into Montparnasse’s green eyes and hoping he’ll survive this. Combeferre doesn’t doubt for a moment that the man in front of him is just as criminally insane as Eponine warned.

“Not asking for your tongue, just your silence about this,” Montparnasse says. “You’re good people, Combeferre. Smart too, in a book way. But most of all, you’re friends with my friend. I’m not gonna fuck with that. Your crew is your blood.”

Combeferre is certain there’s something getting lost in translation here.

“And how do you expect me to trust you on that?” Combeferre asks, incredulous.

“I haven’t lied once. Not _once_ have I lied,” Montparnasse says. “Twisted words, uncommon interpretation, I do that, but lie? No. And I swear to you, Combeferre, I’m not planning to kill you. If you keep your mouth shut, I won’t kill you to keep you quiet.”

It isn’t lost on Combeferre that there’s a very definite absence of _I won’t kill you_.

“Can you do that for me?” Montparnasse asks.

Combeferre knows there’s only one way to get out of this.

“I will,” Combeferre promises, and pretends the smile on Montparnasse’s face is a good sign.


	9. {Clepsydra} | Paris - Valencia

Walking to the metro is nothing like the last time Enjolras brought Grantaire home from Loudin’s apartment. He doesn’t curl into Enjolras, doesn’t sag against Enjolras with a pleased hum. He walks like an exhausted soldier mid-march, and every time Enjolras touches him he lets out a sharp breath, like it’s a surprise that isn’t wholly welcome.

Enjolras stops touching him.

The trains are hot to the point of Enjolras wondering whether or not he should tell Grantaire to take off his coat. He couldn’t find Grantaire’s shirt. He couldn’t find anything _Grantaire_ in the entirety of Loudin’s apartment. Grantaire is sweating in Enjolras’ red coat and holding it tight, like he’s fighting a chill that Enjolras can’t feel.

They sit quietly in the near-empty compartment, an entire empty seat between them, and Enjolras watches Grantaire.

His head is bowed, hands keeping Enjolras’ coat wrapped tightly around himself. Grantaire’s shoulders sag forward along with the rest of him, as if he’s ready to tip over onto the floor. There’s an exhaustion to him that Enjolras can’t understand.

It’s defeat, Enjolras realizes. He feels like splinters of ice have been jabbed into his throat as he watches Grantaire look at anything but Enjolras, like the world is going to destroy him and there’s no point in fighting it.

“What happened?” Enjolras asks him as softly as he can.

Grantaire’s only answer is to shake his head.

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and asks, “Did I do-”

“Stop it,” Grantaire says, and finally looks up, looking resigned and something else. Enjolras can’t place it, can’t read Grantaire like he always can. It’s something Enjolras doesn’t see often, something between rage and sadness. “You aren’t everything, Enjolras.”

Enjolras politely doesn’t correct him, because it’s true. Enjolras knows he isn’t _everything_ to Grantaire, but it’s a close thing. He can share Grantaire with art if Grantaire can share him with his cause.

“I’m not everything, but I’m important enough to you that I have a right to ask how to help,” Enjolras says.

It’s shaky logic, very shaky, and Grantaire would rip it apart usually. Instead, Grantaire says, “Your arrogance makes me want to vomit sometimes.”

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

“You fucking _deserve me_ ,” Grantaire bites out, and grimaces, leaning back in his seat and put his head against the window. “No, you don’t. Nobody deserves to get stuck with me, you least of all.”

Which is true, even if Grantaire means it in an entirely different way.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Enjolras says finally, quietly. “But I’m worried. I want to help you, however I can.”

All Grantaire does is look at him, silent, and Enjolras feels completely helpless in a way he’s never known before.

“Let me help,” Enjolras whispers, barely audible over the automated announcements of stop after stop.

Grantaire looks completely exhausted, and when their eyes meet, Enjolras can see the desperation inside. It’s an emotion they both share.

Enjolras reaches out and ignores the tension in Grantaire, ignores the surprise and uncertainty, because it’s not a warning, or fear, or anything beyond an extra increment of Grantaire’s infuriating self-loathing. It’s Grantaire being surprised by Enjolras wanting to touch him in the first place.

He pulls Grantaire forward until they sit with Grantaire’s head on Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras lets him stay loose and limp. He can feel Grantaire’s shaky breath against his neck.

“I don’t understand why you want me,” Grantaire says.

“I don’t understand gravity, and that’s as much of a fact,” Enjolras says.

“You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras shrugs with his unencumbered shoulder. “Will you tell me now?”

“There’s not much to tell,” Grantaire, the man who killed at _least_ two people, says.

“Yes there is,” Enjolras says, and shifts just enough to bury his nose in Grantaire’s hair, just enough to take Grantaire’s idle hand in his own and squeeze.

Grantaire squeezes back, and talks.

=======

Grantaire and Enjolras are at a politician’s party, and there’s something wrong. Grantaire can feel it in the champagne glasses, tastes the alcohol still lingering in the small cracks of Enjolras’ lips. The man hosting the party introduces himself as Reichard. His business card tells Grantaire the rest of the story.

_Reichard Loudin. Organizer._

He only remembers Reichard’s son’s name because he can remember hearing Enjolras saying it, Enjolras grimacing the syllables out like they were filth in his mouth when he said _Jean-Auguste Loudin_. But Grantaire remembers what happened, and has read enough literature to fear the wrath of a grieving parent.

Grantaire lets himself take Enjolras home, puts him to bed, sleeps just long enough for Enjolras to sleep too. They don’t know how to sleep alone anymore. He tries to do small kindnesses, because it might be the last thing he can do. It’s all he’s ever really been able to do for Enjolras - small reminders, small gestures, small offerings. Small sweeter lies on a slip of paper.

He calls Reichard very, very early in the morning, and Reichard gives him his first command.

We meet at the museum, and come armed. The obedience is grating, feels like balancing a boulder on his head with every toe he keeps in line.

There’s no question of where in the museum he’ll find Reichard. God, Grantaire fucking hates that painting. He makes a point of telling what’s-his-name’s dad. Grantaire sits down next to him with a sigh, and says, “I fucking hate this painting.”

“So do I,” Reichard tells him, and looks at Grantaire like he’s a very full coat rack, out of place and threatening to topple at any moment, not a shred of respect to be found. “You already know the threats.”

“I just don’t know what you want,” Grantaire agrees.

Reichard grins ruthlessly, and says, “I want you to suffer.”

Grantaire nearly draws a knife and cuts him down, paints the marble floor with blood, but Reichard says, “I want Enjolras to suffer. I want you both to suffer like my son did.”

“He died pretty quick, actually,” Grantaire says.

“So would Enjolras,” Reichard says easily. “When he wakes up, he’ll hear that you’ve died, and if you’re lucky that’s where his part of this story ends. _You_ are going to Gare de Lyon. A woman will meet you there. She’ll have some literature for you.”

Grantaire could kill him right now. Grantaire could stab him quietly, slip out the side door and dump his corpse somewhere hard to find. He could make it look like an accident, he could _end him_.

“Do I really have to spell it out?” Reichard asks. “I want to make you wish you were dead. Killing Enjolras would be a _very_ simple way to manage that. Do what I say, or I take the easy way out.”

“You’re going to torture me,” Grantaire says.

Reichard simply nods. “And it’s starting right now. Get going or _actually_ burn to death, the choice is yours.”

Grantaire doesn’t ask what he means. There’s no point. He thinks very seriously one last time of killing Reichard, but he’s a man with a plan. To kill a man with a plan, you have to be prepared for the consequences, and Grantaire can’t take that chance. Without another word, Grantaire stands, and walks out as directed.

It’s easy to get through Paris and to Gare de Lyon, and he tries to not think about what Reichard meant there, that Enjolras will hear Grantaire is dead. He doesn’t think about it. He _doesn’t_. It’s better than either of them actually dying – and he doesn’t doubt that’s in the cards. Reichard wasn’t bluffing. If Grantaire fucks up, Enjolras will die.

He gets into the station to see the mass of people he expects, and almost immediately after stepping through the door, there’s a woman with blonde hair standing in front of him. She has on a royal blue coat and deep brown eyes and exudes a sense of _presence_ that Grantaire doesn’t give a fuck about.

She introduces herself. Grantaire doesn’t even bother remembering her name, just looks at her black and white striped top along with the long gold hair and her eager smile, leaning towards him, and thinks, _Honeybee_. “I’ll be in charge of you,” Honeybee says, and Grantaire pulls out a cigarette with a sigh.

She isn’t in charge of him. She’s a fucking tour guide, as far as Grantaire’s concerned. When she touches his arm, guiding him, he shrugs her off and decides no, she isn’t even that. “Don’t touch me,” he tells her.

Honeybee frowns, but nods.

When they’re seated on the train, Honeybee hands him two things. The first is a phone, with exactly three contacts in it. _For Help_ , the first reads. The second is _For Instruction_. The third, which Grantaire stares at for a long moment, is _For Motivation_.

The second is a folder that’s full of what looks like print-outs of emails. Each and every one of them starts out, _Hello, Father._

“You’re joking,” Grantaire mutters.

“He wants you to read all of them,” Honeybee says, not quite commanding. She looks willowy, but there’s something rigid to her.

It’s a boring train ride. Grantaire obliges.

-

_Hello, Father,_

_Profits are up almost 30% after dealing with the problem we discussed earlier. Your advice, as ever, is appreciated. I’m having Yves draw up another contract; I’d be thrilled to have a second set of eyes look it over._

_But the REAL news is that I’ve met someone. Yes, the impossible has happened. I’ve never felt this way before, it’s like I want to give him anything and everything. He’s amazing. He’s an artist, and his work is beautiful. I’ve kept him safe here in the apartment, because he doesn’t seem to be doing very well. It’s like he’s recovering from being very sick, and I’m doing my best to help him._

_You probably disapprove, of course, but he’s_ special _. He’s quiet, and gentle, and when he does have a better day he’s incredibly funny and intelligent. I think you’d like him. He doesn’t seem really ready for human contact, but I want you to meet him when he is._

_I keep telling myself to slow down, to be cautious, but I think we might be falling in love. There was a connection at first sight, and it’s only growing stronger between us._

_You don’t get a name because I don’t want you researching him. I want him to tell me in his own time, when he’s ready._

_For now, I’ll call him R._

-

Jesus, what’s-his-name was even more delusional than Grantaire thought.

They arrive in Lyon and there’s no waiting around. Honeybee leads them right through Lyon and an apartment door where she finally pauses. “Whatever’s on the other side of the door, you kill.”

Grantaire sighs, itching for a cigarette or alcohol or something because god he wants _Enjolras_. He wants to be second through the door, wants to watch his back and hold him together without even knowing he’s doing it, wants to watch him kill remorselessly and smoothly, breaking obstacles apart like a tidal wave. Instead, he’s got this fucking Honeybee woman who keeps getting into his personal space and trying to order him around.

“If there’s a kid, I’m not killing them,” Grantaire says. There’s no question on that, no wiggle room. Honeybee nods, and Grantaire picks the lock, and has to remind himself that yes, he turns the doorknob. He walks through and there’s no red coat and for a moment he feels like he’s a kite let loose, but then he sees a woman peek her head out of the kitchen, looking confused, and this? This he can do.

It’s simple. Killing people is easy, people don’t realize how fucking _fragile_ humans are. He leaves her body as is, doesn’t bother watching the light fade out of her eyes. Grantaire looks up to see Honeybee staring at him. She breaks into a small, pleased smile, and says, “Good. That was very good, R, you’re very good.”

She reaches out, then, like she’s going to what, fucking pet his hair or something? He grabs her wrist before she gets anywhere near his skin. “Do _not_ touch me. This is your second warning.”

Honeybee doesn’t back off. She just looks indulgent, amused. “What happens when I get to my third?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says honestly, and releases her wrist, tossing her hand to the side. “I’d prefer to not find out, so quit while you’re ahead.”

She smiles like she’s indulging him, and Grantaire has a moment of desperately wanting to punch her in the face. It’s a feeling he’s probably going to need to get used to. “We have other places to be,” Honeybee says, and turns, leading them out of the apartment and the building.

God, he wants Enjolras. He wants Enjolras to tell him it’s okay and that he’s not wasting precious time. He wants Enjolras to snap at him and roll his eyes and hold his hand and comb fingers through his hair. They’re sitting in a train station with Honeybee sitting close enough to touch but never actually doing it, and he doesn’t like the way she looks at him, and Grantaire fishes the phone out of his pocket and hits the _For Motivation_ contact.

He dials, and it’s Enjolras. It’s Enjolras who answers, who knows it’s him from the single gasp he can’t stifle at the sound of Enjolras’ voice. He didn’t know it’d be Enjolras. He didn’t know, but fuck, it is the greatest motivation there could ever be because he can imagine Enjolras in danger, and he says, “Don’t follow me.”

Grantaire hangs up and watches Honeybee give him a calculating look.

He stands up and walks away, heading for the nearest liquor store.

“He’s with a man who will kill him without a second thought. Honestly, he _enjoys_ killing. Enjolras would be a pleasure to murder, for him,” Honeybee tells him later.

She shows him pictures, then. He’s young and beautiful, everything Grantaire isn’t, and Grantaire isn’t quite scared. No, he’s resigned. They’ll kill Grantaire and leave Enjolras to this asshole who in turn will kill Enjolras. There’s no pretty way out of this if Grantaire disobeys. There’s no easy harmless way out even if he does.

She leads the way onto their tray to Stuttgart.

Grantaire lets her.

-

_Hello, Father,_

_Whether or not a permanent solution is the right way to deal with Yves or not is still up in the air. I’m leaning towards yes. He’s been snooping more than usual into things he shouldn’t be the least bit interested in._

_But more importantly, I want some advice. R keeps waking up screaming, and sometimes tries to strangle me in his sleep. It’s an obvious sign of some sort of trauma. Everything about him makes so much more sense with that in mind, but I don’t know how to help him. I give him everything he asks for, I’m patient, I try to do nothing but support him, but trying to help him through this when he won’t even admit it’s happening is so frustrating I could scream._

_You said you helped Mother readjust. I keep thinking I could try and find some way to get a counselor, or a doctor, but he already self-medicates, and I don’t know how to help him. He refuses to talk about it. I know he loves me, I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me like this. I don’t think he even knows he does it, which makes this even worse._

_I’ll stand by him to the end, but I just want him to be okay. How can I do that when he won’t let me help?_

-

Grantaire is starting to feel like a worthless piece of shit the more he reads from what’s-his-name. Jean-Auguste. The guy was delusional, but well-meaning, and Grantaire can admit that without Jean-Auguste, he would probably be dead. He barely remembers his life before Enjolras for a _lot_ of reasons, but he remembers how incredibly fucked up and pathetic he was. Jean-Auguste was doing his best to hold Grantaire together.

He spends the train ride to Stuttgart getting drunk and reminding himself over and over that the blonde head peeking out from the train bunk’s blanket isn’t Enjolras. Honeybee is on the top bunk because Grantaire might kill himself trying to get up and down from there now, can barely walk straight and can’t tell whether it’s the train rolling forward or himself. And _fuck_ , he misses Enjolras. He misses the way Enjolras glares at him, the way Enjolras yanks him around, the way Enjolras plants him where he wants him and says _stay_ and that’s all Grantaire has to do.

Grantaire doesn’t even try to sleep. He just lays there and stares at the strands of hair dripping down from the bunk above and desperately thinks _it’s not him it’s not him it’s not him_. Enjolras grew his hair out in another _fuck you_ move to the politicians he deals with, just because he could and they’d hate it, and Grantaire is in love with every single shining centimeter of it and in a dark room with his vision hazy, god, Grantaire wants to reach out and touch.

He doesn’t.

When they roll into Stuttgart, it’s late to the point of almost being early, and Grantaire trips along behind Honeybee’s confident steps to a hotel, and then immediately turns around and finds the nearest source of alcohol he can. He wants Enjolras so bad it hurts, a sharp squeeze beneath his ribcage where his heart should be, and he desperately hopes enough alcohol could at least burn the feeling down.

He’s pathetic. He’s so, so pathetic, and he calls Enjolras, slumped against the bar. He’s pathetic and inhuman and drunk as fuck and such a waste of space because he wants to be _dead_ because he can hear Enjolras but can’t see him, can’t touch him. And Grantaire is so fucked up. This isn’t normal. He can’t breathe without Enjolras and Grantaire never deserved him. He didn’t deserve Jean-Auguste and he _definitely_ doesn’t deserve Enjolras.

And Enjolras is terrible, and Enjolras is desperate, and Grantaire can’t _exist_. There’s something so completely shattered in Grantaire, something irreparable, and he tries to explain to Enjolras. He’s so broken. He’s so pathetic and Enjolras is so _himself_ , and he’s so himself that Enjolras shouts at him to hand the phone over to the first potential replacement, and Grantaire finds himself with a woman wrapped around him, smiling awkwardly, and Enjolras is so himself, he’s so _Enjolras_ and it hurts.

“Let’s go to bed,” Enjolras says, and doesn’t listen when Grantaire tries to say he can’t do it, because he _can’t_. “Let me walk you back to your hotel and let me just, fuck, just let me hear you breathe, that’s all I’m asking, just give me that, I don’t know what happened but I’ll fix it, I promise, just let me help you.”

There is not enough alcohol in the entire world to make Grantaire feel remotely human, let alone worth the desperation he can hear in Enjolras’ voice.

“I’m going to find you,” Enjolras says, and it’s a declaration of intent so fierce and full of conviction that there’s no other possible outcome.

And Grantaire laughs, because he fucking _wants_ to be found, but there’s a gun to both of their heads and he’s _meant_ to be in pain. Grantaire deserves it. He’s always deserved it. He’s a broken worthless piece of shit and Enjolras is both the best and worst thing to ever happen to him.

They’re a fucking train wreck.

“No you won’t,” he says, and hangs up before he can hear anything else.

There’s not enough alcohol in the entire fucking world to numb to this pain.

When he stumbles out of the bar, Honeybee is there, standing firm and disapproving, frowning. She sighs at the sight of him and says, “I’m touching you to help you get back to the hotel without falling over. You can object when you’re not about to throw up all over yourself.”

She wraps an arm around his waist, stronger than she looks, and Grantaire watches the street lights make her hair shine, reaches out to touch and isn’t batted away, no snapping or disdain. He’s held tightly, and he can make it up the stairs just fine but is practically carried up and she smells nothing like Enjolras.

“I swear to god, Grantaire, if you throw up right now I’m going to leave you out here and lock the door,” she says, holding him tightly against her as she opens their room’s door. “You aren’t worth this effort, Grantaire, you aren’t worth sacrificing my coat over.”

It’s not exactly breaking news, but it’s nice to know someone else can see how fucking worthless he is.

“On the bed,” she says.

Grantaire obeys.

“On your side,” she says.

Grantaire obeys.

“Good boy,” she says, tugging his shoes off. He wants to object, but he’s tired and sluggish and she drops the shoes against the wall, tosses a blanket over him, and proceeds to act like Grantaire isn’t even there.

When he wakes up, he can’t make it to the bathroom before vomiting, he can’t see, he can’t feel – Grantaire can’t remember a hangover like this before, ever. There’s a hand in his sweaty hair, and she says, “We were on our way out the door anyway. Take this.” She holds out a pill, and Grantaire doesn’t even bother asking what it is. He swallows it dry, drinks the water she hands him, leans hard against the side of the mattress and watches her pack up and grimace and glare and sigh, resigned, before hoisting Grantaire off of the floor and handing him weapon after weapon. “You have a job to do.”

“I feel like shit,” Grantaire whispers.

“You look it,” she agrees, and leads them to an office building, and Grantaire feels better and better with every step. Absently, he’s aware she drugged him. Mostly he doesn’t give a fuck. At least the hangover from hell is gone.

Grantaire feels like an attack dog when she just opens the door and steps aside, giving him an imperious, expectant look.

Grantaire obliges.

-

_Hello, Father,_

_The dropping rates of production are quickly being taken care of, now that an example’s been made for everyone. As ever, thank you for your advice. I hope your own work is going well. There’s plenty of work to be done these days. Our situation with the threat we received recently is simply that I’ve hired more security. Overall, I don’t see much reason to worry._

_As ever, your weekly R update. He’s been doing wonderfully recently, we went out for dinner and he was so charming and intelligent, I can only hope he’s recovering. He seems to be more and more alive every day he spends with me, more comfortable with himself. I’m trying to not become optimistic , since he’s seesawed between good and bad days so often, but this seems different, this time. His paintings are shifting, too. I don’t want to say they’re less brutal, but they’re definitely becoming brighter. There’s more light in them. I didn’t think he could_ still _keep improving, but he is._

_I’m trying to not be optimistic, and I know this is too fast, a few months isn’t enough to commit, but how do you know it’s time to propose? I’m going to wait, of course I’m going to wait, but I have to tell you I’ve been thinking about it. We’re so in love, and I can’t imagine wanting to fall asleep seeing anything other than his face._

-

Grantaire stays high, because why not? What’s-her-name provides, with a disdainful air to her movements and an indifference in her words except for those strange bursts of pride and affection, when he must have done something to please her.

They are in Berlin.

Grantaire doesn’t know why, and doesn’t need to know why, other than that she shows him picture after picture of Enjolras and his new partner, reminds him constantly that he’s close to dying and it’s all Grantaire’s fault, reads him letter after letter. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he saw Enjolras, tries desperately to think of anything and everything other than Enjolras, watches Honeybee crook her fingers and drag him forward as needed.

He kills people, sometimes, he’s pretty sure. Grantaire knows he gets a _good boy_ or two, and those usually come from satisfactory murder. Affection comes and goes, flickers of laughter followed by walking out in disgust, and Grantaire has no idea how long it’s been. He wants Enjolras. He lays flat on the bed and stares at the phone and wants Enjolras.

“Poor, pathetic Grantaire,” she says, with her golden hair and bright blue coat that’s so wrong but _close_ , with its intensity. She sighs. She looks like a marble figure set onto the mattress, painted by one of the infinite number of people more talented than him, curves and wrinkled fabrics, assessing him. “You can’t go back, and he can’t find you. I don’t think he’s trying all that hard.”

She shifts, prowls, walks across the room.

Grantaire loathes her in a very quiet way, hates all of the small things, hates the moments where she lights up and _likes him_ , treats him like he’s human.

“I don’t know why you let him keep you on a leash like that,” she says.

“It’s called marriage,” Grantaire says. “The most dangerous leash of all.”

She laughs, then. There’s genuine humor in it, and it’s wrong. She looks at him like he’s interesting, like he’s pinned down for her to dissect. “Stand up, Grantaire.”

He doesn’t like how she says his name. There’s no whip to it.

He can’t see any point in fighting, so he rolls onto his feet, vertical, slouching. His fingers itch for something to do.

“I wonder what he sees in you,” she says.

Grantaire has never understood why Enjolras loves him. “He’s always been delusional,” Grantaire says.

“Are you going to kill him like you killed Jean-Auguste?” she asks, as if it’s pure curiosity, one more interesting button to push. It makes something in Grantaire start to scream, bashing at anything and everything. It must be why his heartbeat suddenly jolts forward, why he suddenly can’t breathe.

“No,” Grantaire whispers, because he’s supposed to suffer, and there’d be nothing more horrific, there’s nothing more terrifying.

She’s smiling. “Or am I going to have to give you a little _push?_ ”

She laughs, and shoves him, hard enough that he gasps and stumbles backwards and something _snaps_ in him, something’s screaming inside of him, something screams outside of him, and Grantaire doesn’t know what’s happening, only knows there’s blood on the floor and on his hands and in her hair and on his knife and he gets blood on the phone, on how he heard Enjolras, and he curls onto the tile in the bathroom somewhere between sobbing and hyperventilating.

He breathes, and breathes, and slowly, stops feeling.

Enjolras calls, and absolutely nothing else matters in the world.

He showers, as directed, and can’t quite remember what was happening beyond that there’s a body sprawled on the hotel room’s carpet.

Grantaire hums, conflicted, and then walks out the door.

His feet will find his way back.

===

Combeferre watches intently as Montparnasse grabs the cardboard box under one arm. He takes it gently, even though it seems to weigh nothing at all. When he once again approaches Combeferre, there’s nothing companionable about it.

“Up you get, smart one,” Montparnasse says, using his empty hand to grab Combeferre’s wrist and hoist him onto his feet. “Cops to avoid, agreements to seal. You need something, now’s when to get it. Cops take _everything_.”

It’s a matter of moments to find Grantaire’s blood-spattered painting, resting comfortably in one of the cabinets. It’s as if Reichard was planning to pull it out and walk away in his own time, not the least bit impeded. Combeferre doesn’t _need_ it, but it feels like a trophy, somehow. He’ll dissect his emotions later, when he isn’t trying to jog after Montparnasse as sirens sound in the distance.

Moving quickly while carrying a large square object in a large frame isn’t easy, no matter how simple Montparnasse makes box-carrying look. They get out of the building through a side entrance Combeferre would have never guessed exists.

Combeferre follows Montparnasse carefully through alleys and side streets moving between fast and casual, until Montparnasse stops in front of a building.

He looks at Combeferre and the painting for a long moment, and then grimaces. “Ugh, he owes me so hard for this,” Montparnasse says, and pulls a loaded-down key ring out from a pocket, flicking through it with his thumb and index finger until he reaches a key that looks just like every other one on the ring. Still, it unlocks the door. Montparnasse makes it very obvious Combeferre is meant to follow him in, holding it open with an annoyed expectant look while Combeferre steps through.

It is a _very_ nice building. There’s a crystal chandelier in the center of the stairwell that stretches up and up and up, and Combeferre is too busy not quite gaping at it to recognize the gentle _ting_ noise of an elevator.

Montparnasse continues to look at him like Combeferre is a filthy mutt he’s being forced to bring out of the rain. “You can’t hide here,” he says. “Only reason you’re here is Enjolras would get pissed otherwise. Get it?”

“I understand,” Combeferre agrees, because he does. He imagines this from Montparnasse’s viewpoint – or tries to, at least. He’s towing along an inept nerd to keep the police from arresting him, solely for the sake of someone else not even involved in the situation. Combeferre frowns. “What is Enjolras to you?”

Montparnasse just shakes his head, stepping out of the elevator and heading for one of the doors, flicking through the keys once again.

Combeferre isn’t quite sure what he’s expecting to see, but this? Is not it.

Montparnasse flicks the lights on, and Combeferre is looking at an apartment that’s been turned into nothing but storage, with one large gold bed in the very center of the room, a chandelier hanging directly above the bed. One half of the apartment has rows and shelves of weaponry, and the other has efficiently vacuum-packed racks and racks of clothes, and it’s the least lived-in apartment Combeferre has ever seen.

The kitchen, at least, seems sane, and he follows Montparnasse inside to watch him carefully set the box on the table. He glances over at Combeferre and points at the nearest empty space on the wall. “Leave it, I’ll get it back to Enjolras when it isn’t hot.”

Combeferre does, setting it down carefully, and tries to decide where to go from here.

When he next glances over at Montparnasse, he’s tugging the box open, and Combeferre gives in to curiosity. What payment could Combeferre never outbid?

“Get out,” Montparnasse says, staring into the box. When Combeferre moves closer instead of obeying, Montparnasse says, “Out, or you have an accident.”

Combeferre glances inside, but before he can say anything, Montparnasse draws himself up instead of hunching over the box. Meeting Montparnasse’s gaze, Combeferre has no doubt that he’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for Enjolras.

“What do they mean to you?” Combeferre asks, unwisely. He’s more intelligent than this, but he can’t help the curiosity. The man literally draped his bed in gold, has more valuables stored away in this one apartment than Combeferre has ever seen in one place excluding museums, and that includes Enjolras’ armory.

Why would broken masks be worth so much to him?

“Out,” Montparnasse says one last time, cold in a way that makes Combeferre feel something sharp and fast run down his spine, and Combeferre is smart enough to know what this is. It’s his final warning.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Combeferre says, and walks out. He has places to be.

Combeferre catches a taxi easily, and does his best to collect himself on the drive back to the Musain. 

“Can I drop you off a couple streets away?” the taxi driver asks. “I’ve been trying to avoid the snarl all day.”

Combeferre frowns. “What do you mean?”

The taxi driver frowns at him through the rear view mirror. “The reporters. You know, the faked death story? Apparently the golden couple is due home at any minute, and they’re all trying to be the first to see.”

 _Nothing happens in a vacuum_ , Reichard had said.

Why burn a museum down? Because people will _notice._

Combeferre curses, pulling out his phone, and prays someone can intercept an armed and unhinged Grantaire before he’s assaulted by reporters and all hell breaks loose.

\---

By the time Grantaire has finished speaking – all quiet stilted words, like someone stepping carefully over bear traps, and Enjolras doesn’t doubt for a _second_ that there’s more to the bare-bones story he’s received – they’ve arrived at their home station. Grantaire lets out a stunned relieved breath when the station is announced, something more appropriate for a desert oasis than a metro stop.

Enjolras knows he’s missing at least two layers of awareness Grantaire is dealing with. First, whatever drugs are still in his system. Secondly, whatever trauma is still wrapped around his mind.

Grantaire started shaking at _I went to the museum_ and hasn’t stopped sweating, and Enjolras doesn’t know how to tell which is caused by what. He wants to find Reichard and murder him, but for now, Enjolras trusts that to Montparnasse, because Grantaire is infinitely more important than making Reichard pay.

When they step off of the train and make their way up the stairs and into the sunlight, it’s like watching Grantaire step out of a cave for the first time in months, squinting at the light and slowly, very slowly, loosening. The tight coiled set of his shoulders unfurls with another deep exhalation, and Grantaire keeps a viciously tight hold on Enjolras’ hand, which he’s all too happy to accept.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Grantaire says quietly.

Enjolras has no idea what he’s talking about, but raises their joined hands to press a light kiss to the top of Grantaire’s hand. “You can do anything.”

“Don’t you dare start a thought experiment,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras can’t help but smile against Grantaire’s hand. “No, I mean – I’m not okay. You know that. I can’t be okay.”

“All I am going to ask of you is your permission to keep you in bed with me for at least a month,” Enjolras says. “I’m not letting you out of my arms. I’m never letting go of you.”

“You are so fucking creepy,” Grantaire says. There is absolutely no humor to it. Enjolras can’t decide between letting go of Grantaire’s hand and stepping away, or wrapping him up in a tight hug. Grantaire looks up at the sky, tilts his head to stare at the passing clouds. “Staying in bed for a month sounds good.”

The lack of a _with you_ cuts into Enjolras sharper than any knife could.

He doesn’t know what to do.

It’s not _Enjolras_ that’s the problem, though – it takes barely a moment for Enjolras to overcome the horrified _oh fuck oh fuck what did I do he’s leaving again_ reaction.

“You don’t have to be okay, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and dares to move and reach forward, cupping a hand around the back of Grantaire’s skull, feeling the strength of bone beneath his skin and sweat and hair. “I don’t need you to be okay, I just need _you_ , that’s all.”

Grantaire’s eyes are bright, frantic. “But I’m not me, I’m-”

“Yes you are, and you always will be,” Enjolras says. Grantaire makes a protesting noise, opens his mouth to say something self-effacing or objecting to the idea that Enjolras wants him or something equally infuriating, and Enjolras refuses to hear it. Before Grantaire can voice whatever has trapped him inside of his own head, Enjolras snaps out, “And if you aren’t, I will _fix it_ , is that understood?”

Grantaire gapes at him.

“Good,” Enjolras says, and releases his grip, only loosely holding Grantaire’s hand as subtly coaxes Grantaire down the street and towards the Musain, guiding him step by step. “We’re almost home. You take whatever time you need, do whatever you need to do, and I’ll help, and it’ll all be fine. You’ll be fine and I’ll be fine and it’ll be like nothing happened.”

“Sometimes I like to pretend I can’t see through your bullshit,” Grantaire says. He pats down the pockets of Enjolras’ coat, and sighs. “It’s just like you, to have a lighter but no actual cigarettes.”

Enjolras shrugs, grateful that Grantaire hasn’t noticed that they’re finally walking at a reasonable pace, almost looking like normal people. “There’s plenty at home.”

“I’m starting to really like your stay in bed for a month plan, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He sounds completely exhausted, but Enjolras is helpless to do anything but smile at him, because there was humor there, and they’re going to be okay. Enjolras is going to make everything okay. 

And then they turn the corner.

The Musain is covered with a mass of people, a hive of humanity that Enjolras gapes at. Their poor building has a swarm buzzing around the café and Enjolras barely has a moment to hear Grantaire’s _what the fuck_ before they’re spotted.

Public image is very important. Enjolras is aware of this. He doesn’t give a fuck, but he does try to look responsible at least.

He also tries very hard to keep Grantaire’s contact with the press at a minimum, because even on a good day, Grantaire doesn’t do well when he’s the center of attention.

Today is not a good day.

The swarm shouts their names, and Enjolras knows there’s no running – where would they run to? The only option is to get _through_ them, and he knows there are people inside of the Musain who would happily assist, but Enjolras doesn’t know how to find those people, let alone summon them. He gets a tight grip on Grantaire’s hand and quickly begins dragging him towards the door.

They’re barely forty steps into the swirl and push of the paparazzi when one of them gets too close, pushes his camera directly into Grantaire’s face while screaming questions at him, and Enjolras barely has time to think _oh fuck_ before he watches Grantaire snap.

It’s always horrifyingly elegant, when Grantaire’s mind shatters into a panic attack. One moment he looks ready to faint, and the next, he drops Enjolras’ hand and flows into movement. It’s an elegant smack of his hand to the reporter’s reaching arms, a quick simple grip on his wrist, and a ruthlessly sharp hook of his foot to the back of the reporter’s knees, and Enjolras lunges forward, desperately throws himself towards Grantaire as the reporter shouts in surprise and falls to his knees, and the other members of the swarm won’t move, barely understand what’s happening, just slowly _gasping_ , as Grantaire casually stomps down on the reporter’s shoulder, dislocating the joint, and the man finally starts _screaming_.

The crowd finally moves, but they’re fucking _reporters_ , so they move for their cameras, move for pictures, and Enjolras’ fingers brush the fabric of his own coat on Grantaire’s shoulders as Grantaire leans down to wrench the reporter’s head back, exposing the man’s throat, and Grantaire _knows_ Enjolras’ coat, knows where the pockets are, and Enjolras watches one of his beautiful hands shift into the place where Enjolras usually keeps one of Grantaire’s knives, for _luck_ , drawing Montparnasse’s replacement out efficiently, and it’s so easy to kill people. Humans are fragile and made of nothing but blood and bone and meat and Enjolras surges forward, grabs on to the wrist of Grantaire’s raised and ready hand, and crushes their bodies together.

Grantaire isn’t thinking right now. That’s the entire reality behind his panic attacks. He doesn’t think, and his body defends itself, and as Grantaire changes his target to Enjolras, trying to twist his wrist out of Enjolras’ hold as Enjolras shouts, “Grantaire! Grantaire, it’s okay, it’s me, nothing’s going to hurt you, Grantaire, it’s okay-”

It’s Grantaire’s panic that tries to shove Enjolras off, not Grantaire. But Enjolras is determined. He keeps as tight of a hold as he can on Grantaire, presses his fingers into Grantaire’s hair, keeps trying to say soothing words while restraining him. “I’ve got you,” he says. He says it over and over, fighting Grantaire, desperately hoping the reporters will _back off_ , and Enjolras keeps holding him. “I’ve got you, Grantaire, it’s okay, it’s safe, it’s okay-”

“Oh god,” Grantaire chokes out.

“Back up!” someone shouts – _roars_ – in the crowd, and Enjolras keeps holding tight even as Grantaire lets the knife drop and begins to shake. Enjolras doesn’t look, can’t imagine for a single moment caring about something more than making sure Grantaire is safe and okay.

“Oh god, oh god,” Grantaire says, and when he slumps to the ground, Enjolras follows him down instead of trying to hold him upright. “Enjolras. _Enjolras._ I don’t-”

“It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re alright,” Enjolras says, and ignores the rush of people around them. There’s shouting, and flashes, and Grantaire shakes like he’s naked in a blizzard and he just holds him, because he’s going to make everything okay and step one is ensuring that Grantaire is feeling up to actually moving, or up to _anything_.

The shouting around them becomes more and more distinctive, and finally, Enjolras hears Courfeyrac next to him, saying, “You have to get inside, I’m sorry, but you have to move, Enjolras.”

Grantaire is breathing hot and unsteady against his neck, fingers curled in the front of his shirt, and he is nowhere near ready to move.

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

“Because this was already a massive news scandal before there was video of Grantaire trying to kill a reporter,” Courfeyrac says, which Enjolras couldn’t give less of a fuck about, but then Courfeyrac adds, “You’re also in the middle of the road and blocking traffic.”

Grantaire isn’t ready to move, slumped somewhere between exhaustion and fear, but Courfeyrac has a point. The press can go fuck themselves, but the thought of one impatient driver is what leads Enjolras to let go of Grantaire – and the choked noise Grantaire makes slices Enjolras apart. But he scoops Grantaire into his arms, stands, and starts walking down the tight path their friends are fighting to make.

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras thinks, _ah, there he is._ He’s barely audible over the clicks and shouts of their names and questions Enjolras makes a point of not listening to.

Enjolras can’t remember a single moment when he’s been more disgusted with humanity than right now, watching these people hound them and demand answers to questions Enjolras can’t let himself hear or he’ll end up dropping Grantaire in an attempt to punch someone in the face. They swarm, and Courfeyrac stays directly behind them the entire time, fending off those trying to close in on them, and it shouldn’t take _five people_ to get them through a fucking crowd.

“I can walk,” Grantaire says.

“You don’t have to,” Enjolras says, and tries very hard to keep the rage down. “You shouldn’t even have to be moving – this shouldn’t have even happened, this was nowhere near your fault, Grantaire.”

“Oh, I think it’s a little bit my fault,” Grantaire says dryly.

“It _really_ isn’t,” Enjolras snaps, even if he doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want anything even the slightest bit sharp directed towards Grantaire, but Grantaire doesn’t flinch. He just sighs.

The moment they’re through the Musain’s front door, Courfeyrac slams it behind them and Grantaire rolls his way out of Enjolras’ arms. Enjolras wants to reach out, wants to drag him back, but Grantaire just walks straight through the café, up the stairs to ABC’s den, and then into the back stairs so quickly that Enjolras can’t catch him.

“It’s already all over the internet,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras can see Combeferre sitting next to the window, staring out at Paris. “You and Grantaire were already in the news, speculation’s been-”

“Thank you, Courfeyrac, but I don’t care,” Enjolras says, incapable of looking at anything but the door Grantaire walked out of. Does he want to be alone? Is Enjolras allowed to follow? Is he missing something, did he do something, did he _not_ do something?

“We need to talk, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and he sounds so completely exhausted that Enjolras looks towards him. Combeferre’s hair is a mess, there are circles under his eyes, and his expression is more appropriate for emergency rooms, and Enjolras is suddenly horrifically reminded of Combeferre and Courfeyrac telling him Grantaire died. “How much do you know?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Nowhere near enough, but Grantaire-”

“He needs some time to himself, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras’ immediate reaction is to say _no he doesn’t_ , but Courfeyrac knows these things. When he looks at Courfeyrac, he receives an encouraging nod as he pats the back of a chair already pulled out and waiting for him. “It’s okay, he’s home safe. Just give Grantaire a few minutes to collect himself.”

If anyone would know, it would be Courfeyrac, who sees people in a light that Enjolras never can.

He doesn’t sit. He nods his assent, keeping the rage down as much as he possibly can.

Enjolras paces.

Combeferre tells him everything, and Enjolras listens to the cruelty and indifference and naïve _stupidity_ they’ve dealt with, and Enjolras watches the frantic reactions and damage control that his friends are fighting to put in place. He feels something inside of himself fraying with every second.

He watches Cosette mount the stairs, looking wild and uncertain, hears her say, “They want to arrest Grantaire for assault.”

They don’t care about Grantaire killing three people, but the minute he hurts a reporter, they start screaming for blood.

And whatever it is that’s straining inside of Enjolras _snaps_.

\---

When Grantaire wakes up sprawled on their bed, he has a strange moment of wondering what he dreamed and what was real, and if he’s still dreaming, because Enjolras is sitting in a chair next to the bed with their old bags on the floor next to him, ready and waiting to go. If it wasn’t for the longer hair and the uncomfortably new clothing, Grantaire would think he’d dreamed up the past two years.

The moment Grantaire rolls over to stare at him, Enjolras asks, “How are you feeling?”

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks.

“That’s not an answer,” Enjolras says.

“I feel fucked up and exhausted and pathetic, now it’s your turn,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras hesitates, which is never a good sign. “We can talk when-”

“We can talk now,” Grantaire says. “Are we going somewhere?”

For a long moment, Enjolras is silent.

“I can’t do this anymore, Grantaire,” Enjolras finally says, and Grantaire wishes he was surprised, he really does. Still, two years isn’t a bad run. Enjolras leans forward, on the edge of his seat. “I can’t just be a part of this…this _cesspool_ , this disgusting system. I can’t do it.”

Grantaire can’t even move. He just stays still, paralyzed from a pain all too familiar but so much _worse_ , and tries to keep it from showing. “That’s fine,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras lets out a huff of a laugh, bitter, but somehow relieved. “Nothing about this is fine,” he says. “Nothing – they wanted to fucking _arrest you_ , they wanted to take you away just because you had a panic attack. And I’ve become a part of the establishment. I’m just as inefficient and slow and _useless_ as any other fucking politician – I’m a _politician_ , Grantaire. I _hate_ politicians.”

He stands, then, walking back and forth as he speaks, as if he can’t decide if he needs to face Grantaire or the wall.

“I’m done trying to play by the rules,” Enjolras says. “All the rules do is fuck you over and slow you down and try to make you part of the problem.”

Grantaire is very grateful for the fact he’s laying down, because Enjolras isn’t throwing him out. Enjolras is throwing _Enjolras_ out.

“We need to leave Paris for a little while, but after everyone calms down, you can still have this,” Enjolras says.

“Have what?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras motions at the bedroom, the apartment, probably the entirety of Paris while he’s at it. “ _This_. A normal life.”

Grantaire tries to process that comment, tries to see where the fuck Enjolras is getting _normal life_ from, and laughs. He laughs so hard it hurts, because Enjolras thinks, what, that this is what everyone else in the world lives like?

“No, Enjolras, _god_ no, this is not a normal life,” Grantaire finally manages to say. “We are so fucked up.”

Enjolras has lost the wind in his sails, sitting in the chair once again, frowning. “I thought you were happy.”

“I was,” Grantaire says, and fuck, he was. He was so pathetically happy. “It wasn’t from our lifestyle.”

The quirk of a smile that peeks its way out from Enjolras’ lips is adorable. He is going to be smug about this for years. If they have years. Which they almost definitely won’t, if Enjolras is saying what Grantaire thinks he’s saying.

Grantaire forces himself to sit up, and tries to look human for Enjolras. “So we’re just saying ‘fuck it’ to everything and hitting the road again,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras opens his mouth, and then closes it, because obviously he hadn’t realized that yes, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“I have a very definite first stop,” Enjolras says, with a dark kind of conviction that makes Grantaire wonder halfheartedly about whether or not Reichard is dead. And then Grantaire wonders if he really gives a shit. The man got his torture in, and Grantaire imagines that Enjolras’ new attack dog probably got the job done. He isn’t worth the moment it takes to think about him. So no, it’s not Reichard that has Enjolras’ hands practically twitching to get at someone.

The only person Grantaire can think of that has had Enjolras that twitchy to watch someone bleed is Leclaire, which, hey. It’s as good a target as any, for one last hurrah to his political career.

Grantaire keeps cigarettes in the nightstand – keeps them everywhere, really, packs and ash trays strewn around the apartment like tiny landmines in a war zone – and pretends his hands aren’t shaking when he lights it. He nods, and smokes, and breathes. “When do we leave?”

“We’re not jumping right back into things,” Enjolras says, not quite reprimanding but close enough that Grantaire still feels like he’s done or said something really fucking stupid.

“But we _are_ leaving,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. “You don’t – we need to leave, but where we go, what we do-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Grantaire cuts him off, and shakes his head. It’s never mattered. The only important thing is that Enjolras is in front of him, beautiful and terrible and peerless and perfect in all of the worst ways. When he stands up, the world is shaky, but Enjolras is there right next to him, not quite touching but hovering, _just in case_. Grantaire tolerates it with a small sigh, looking at the floor. “Where the fuck are my shoes?”

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Enjolras asks, obviously confused.

“You’re telling politics to fuck off and going back to killing people, because it gets results and you’re impatient,” Grantaire says. “What, do you want me to talk you out of it? I figured you’d been stewing about this for however long I was asleep.”

Grantaire could do it, of course. He doesn’t particularly _want_ to, but he could.

Enjolras just stands there, watching him. “You aren’t okay,” he says simply, like Grantaire doesn’t know. Grantaire imagines it’s a bit like informing someone that they just had their arm blown off in an explosion.

He goes with honesty, circling around the bed and still seeking his shoes. “I’ve never been okay,” Grantaire tells him. “There’s just increments of how fucked up I am on any given day. I’m ignoring it for now.” There will come a day when he’ll have to sit down and think about a lot of things, but today is not that day. Now is not the time, particularly since they’re doing a very, _very_ slow job of evading arrest.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Enjolras says, and when Grantaire turns towards him, Enjolras is holding his missing shoes out. For once, there’s no judgment in his voice. He says it like he’s sharing trivia, more like the average rainfall in February than sound mental health advice. “Are you sure you’re okay to leave?”

“Neither of us want to deal with getting arrested, I think,” Grantaire says, and tosses his shoes onto the floor, stomping his feet into them. He lost his normal coat at some point, so he opens the closet, pulling out his nice (boring) black coat, the we-have-to-look-nice coat, and it does look very nice on Grantaire. He can ruin it later.

After a moment, Enjolras picks up their shared duffle bag and hands it to Grantaire. He keeps his hand on the shoulder strap, that same concern shining through in his eyes. “You’re sure,” he says.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, stubbing his far too unsmoked cigarette into an ashtray before yanking the bag out of his grip. “I swear to god, if you ask me one more time-”

“Fine,” Enjolras says, which was far easier than Grantaire expected, and grabs the second bag. “We’re headed to Valencia.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows rise. “What’s in Spain?”

“Does it matter?” Enjolras asks, holding out his empty hand, expectant, and no, it really doesn’t.

Grantaire takes his hand.

They leave together, quiet and unrestrained.

\---

There are things in the world that Combeferre had once believed were hard, concrete facts. Some of them still are – the Earth goes around the sun, the Earth isn’t a perfect sphere, the stars are distant and ancient and possibly dead.

He never in his life thought that he’d have doubts about what to do with _himself_.

Enjolras’ explosion had been a very quiet one, quiet and terrifying, simply saying _I’m not doing this anymore_ before writing out an official fuck-you to the National Assembly and heading upstairs. It is very, very obvious that Enjolras has no intention of trying the legal way again. In all honesty, Combeferre is just grateful that Enjolras didn’t choose to confront the press or try to blow anything up on the way out.

And now, after nothing but a quick hug goodbye and a quick confirmation that he and Grantaire both have actual phones, Combeferre doesn’t know what to do with himself. None of them do. For the past two years, their lives have been devoted to the ABC political party that’s now thriving. There’s no way to begrudge Enjolras his decision; deep down, Combeferre thinks they always knew this would happen. This entire effort was an exercise in trying to turn a wild lion into a circus animal.

Combeferre sits by the window, exhausted in a way he can’t remember ever feeling before, and thinks, _What now?_

Courfeyrac shifts in his seat next to Combeferre, setting a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what happened, but I know something did,” Courfeyrac says, because that’s always his priority. He has enough heart for twenty men. “Do you want to talk?”

“I don’t know what happens next,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac doesn’t quite laugh. It’s an amused noise, followed by a squeeze of his shoulder before Courfeyrac releases him. “Are you serious? It’s obvious,” Courfeyrac says.

Combeferre turns to frown at him. “It is?”

“You take Enjolras’ place,” Courfeyrac says, like absolutely anyone could’ve seen this.

That’s how it is for Courfeyrac, though. He sees things in a way that Combeferre can never hope to manage, where pathways of _people_ click with no effort.

When Combeferre doesn’t speak. Courfeyrac frowns. “You do realize that you were pretty much the politician, right? Enjolras did all of the debating and figurehead and terrorizing politicians parts, but the tactics and policies, that was all you,” he says. “And you’re not exactly a pushover when it comes to debate or terrorizing people either, when it’s necessary. You have something Enjolras could never have.”

The only thing Combeferre can come up with that he has and Enjolras doesn’t is not the answer Courfeyrac is waiting for.

“The answer is subtlety,” Courfeyrac says, bumping their shoulders together with a small smile. “And I hear there’s about to be a seat in the National Assembly open. In our district, even.”

“I’m not a politician, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says.

“And Enjolras was?” Courfeyrac asks, which is a fair point. “Look, it’s the same mission, it’s the same tactics, it’s the same exact duties for ABC. We’ve been making a _lot_ of progress this way. Why not see how far it can go? The only difference for you is that you’re the one ripping people apart with your face in papers.”

Combeferre isn’t shy, exactly, or hard on the eyes. But he is definitely not bedroom poster material like Enjolras, isn’t a swoon-worthy hero by any means.

Most importantly, Combeferre has learned very, very clearly that he isn’t nearly as clever as he likes to think.

“Don’t start with that, I know that look,” Courfeyrac says, and pokes him in the shoulder. “Remember it’d still be a group effort. Enjolras wasn’t alone in this, and you wouldn’t be either.” He smiles. “And you’d enjoy it. Don’t try to deny that you’d enjoy doing your sneaky genius routine on those poor fat sheep.”

 _You’re a wolf, Combeferre,_ Reichard had said, and Combeferre wonders about that.

In the end, Reichard Loudin was right about many things.

Combeferre sighs, and gives Courfeyrac a small smile. “Why not?”

“There you go,” Courfeyrac says, beaming, before suddenly snapping and pointing at Combeferre. “Right, I forgot, you have a painting waiting for you downstairs. It came with a note that basically just says ‘here you go, here’s my phone number.’ It didn’t seem worth interrupting you.”

Combeferre frowns. “Interrupting?”

“Interrupting your processing time,” Courfeyrac says, motioning at the window before searching his pockets, pulling out a slip of paper. “You needed to think some things out. Anyway, here’s the note.”

It is _very_ short, and the handwriting is atrocious to the point of almost illegible, so Combeferre has even less of a question as to who sent it. The note is a phone number, and two words.

_As promised._

Combeferre chooses to believe it’s a good sign.

“Right, so, where should we start?” Courfeyrac asks, always one to jump into things as completely as possible, a cannonball of enthusiasm.

ABC started under Enjolras, and will remain under Enjolras. Combeferre has always followed him, and can’t imagine doing anything else. But Enjolras has a higher goal, higher than any of them could ever hope to reach, maybe even too high for Enjolras himself. This is simply a different sort of following. A legacy, of a time when it seemed like the world could be convinced and enchanted into becoming just.

Where do they pick up? Where do they start?

He imagines Enjolras and Grantaire – always an _and Grantaire_ – walking off into the sunset, hand in hand like a romance movie. They’d be arguing, of course, but the hand in hand image is the one Combeferre tries to hold on to.

“We start with a new beginning,” Courfeyrac says. “A new dream. We focus not on justice, but _equality_.”

Combeferre lets himself tilt his head to the side and rest his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “It sounds good,” he says.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Courfeyrac says, softer. “But you-”

“It should be you,” Combeferre tells him. When Courfeyrac makes a questioning noise, Combeferre continues, “You should be the one in office. You’re incredibly intelligent, you can understand people, you’re more charismatic, you’re-”

“No,” Courfeyrac says. “You’d be great at this.”

“So would you,” Combeferre says, and knows it’s true. Courfeyrac would be amazing, all charm and wit, able to laugh things off even when they cut to the bone. It _should_ be Courfeyrac. “I’ve been doing what I should be doing, Courfeyrac. Not to mention that with Enjolras and Grantaire back in the field, it makes more sense. I’ll be pulled two ways even without the added pressure of public appearances – something that you thrive off of, I must add.”

He can tell the moment the right answer clicks in Courfeyrac’s mind, because he tenses. The arm around Combeferre’s shoulder goes tight and rigid, and Combeferre reaches up to hold Courfeyrac’s unmoving hand hovering above Combeferre’s collarbone.

“I promise you can do this,” Combeferre says. “Don’t worry, I’d still be the power behind the throne.”

“You really would,” Courfeyrac says, and groans, resting his head against Combeferre’s, their brains stacked on top of each other. It’s a beautiful thought, for some reason. “So that’s the plan, then? Wish Enjolras all the best and we take up where he left off?”

Combeferre closes his eyes. “Except we do it better this time,” he says. They’re starting to learn the game – and Combeferre finally, _finally_ understands the difference. When you can’t just kill your target, it has to be cunning and quiet when you take them down. Combeferre has to invent something nuanced and complete. Something that would make him a worthy victor.

“This is such a terrible plan,” Courfeyrac says.

“Hush, you,” Combeferre says, and squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand. Courfeyrac squeezes back immediately, and it’s so reassuring, so _nice_ to just be here together with Courfeyrac. It’s ridiculous, and Combeferre can’t imagine wanting it any other way.

He feels like he’s supposed to say something, have some sort of epiphany, maybe learn some lesson from it all. In reality, Combeferre is just _tired_ , and infinitely grateful that Courfeyrac is with him.

“Take your time,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre can feel him smile. “We have plenty.”

Actually, they don’t. There’s a massive amount of work to do, a towering pile of clean-up and plans and guiding Enjolras _and_ Courfeyrac and it’s stressful just thinking about it.

Combeferre keeps his eyes shut, and does nothing but breathe.

\---

Enjolras and Grantaire are asleep on a train, smashed together and heading south with Grantaire’s nose planted firmly on Enjolras’ collarbone. It’s not a good position to be in when your phone starts ringing at five in the morning.

“What the fuck, turn it off,” Grantaire groans into Enjolras’ skin.

Enjolras drops his hand onto the floor, feeling around for his phone while moving as little as possible, in the hopes of keeping Grantaire from having to actually wake up. When he does find his phone, Enjolras doesn’t even give a greeting. He tries, though. It’s a muffled grumble of a _Hello_ , which Enjolras figures will do well enough.

“So you’re getting a grace period ‘cause I figure you’re busy with your boy,” a voice that sounds ominously similar to Montparnasse says. “But I also figure now’s enough time, so I remind you of _obligations_.”

“Can this wait?” Enjolras asks, which is probably more whining than question.

“Already been waiting,” Montparnasse says. “See, I’ve got this empty spot in front of the building. Nice and car-sized.”

“Oh god, your Ferrari,” Enjolras groans.

“And a Ferrari’s one hell of a discount on those services, Enjolras,” Montparnasse says.

“I know, I’ll get you one, I’m in Spain,” Enjolras says.

“The fuck? They’re Italian,” Montparnasse says.”And shiny. Get me a gold one.”

Grantaire begins muttering curses directly into Enjolras’ skin, rough lips and careless teeth, and it is very, very distracting.

“I swear you will have a gold Ferrari as soon as I can get you one,” Enjolras says firmly. “Is that all?”

“A gold Ferrari is an affront to cars everywhere,” Grantaire says.

“Heard that,” Montparnasse says. “Tell him he’s stupid.”

“There isn’t a single reason I would ever be willing to do that,” Enjolras says, and yawns. “It’s five in the morning, we are going back to sleep, anything else?”

Enjolras can hear Montparnasse’s sigh very clearly. “Nah, that’s it. Sleep well, both of you,” he says, which seems unusually kind, and hangs up.

The world outside of their window is growing lighter and lighter by the second, and Enjolras groans. He should’ve shut the curtains. He should’ve just taken care of the stupid car when they were on the first train. There are a _lot_ of things he should’ve done.

But, he isn’t a creature of _should_. He dropped everything even remotely _should_ in his life yesterday in Paris.

Enjolras drops his phone onto the floor. “Sleep well?” he asks Grantaire, and runs fingers through Grantaire’s hair, which is desperately in need of a brush.

He expects the comfortable lying Grantaire’s been doing, where they pretend everything’s okay in the hopes that if they pretend hard enough it’ll become reality. Instead, Grantaire sighs, and says, “I’m not done trying.”

“No rush,” Enjolras says, and does some quick math in his head. Finding a route to Valencia that avoided Lyon has extended the trip, to say the least. “We have another three hours anyway.”

“And then the night train becomes the dawn train,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras knows there’s still something not quite _standard_ in Grantaire. He’s not fully back to being the Grantaire who has emerged from two years of love and safety. But, that’s what a nice hideaway in Spain is for. Enjolras will get them back to that state. They _will_ come out of this okay, because Enjolras refuses to allow anything else happen.

“Go to sleep, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“You’re so bossy,” Grantaire says.

“ _I’m_ going to sleep, then,” Enjolras says, and shuts his eyes. He memorized the curves and edges to Grantaire’s face long ago, and Grantaire still isn’t willing to show him the changes. “You’re welcome to follow me.”

“I still want to know what’s in Valencia,” Grantaire says.

The answer is a quiet apartment in a building just high enough to see the Balearic Sea out of their windows. What’s in Valencia is a place to live without interruption, somewhere they can remember how to breathe. It’s a sabbatical. It’s _recovery_. And it is definitely not something to tell Grantaire if he wants it to actually feel restful, because Grantaire will make it into some sarcastic burden and mock Enjolras relentlessly while making every attempt he can to do exactly the opposite of what Enjolras is aiming for.

Or he usually would, at least.

The goal of Valencia is to get his snarky, artistic, infuriating, breathtaking Grantaire back to himself.

“ _We_ are in Valencia,” Enjolras says, honest. Enjolras knows he’s still twitching at shadows and can barely breathe when Grantaire is out of arm’s reach.

“Fine, keep your plans to yourself,” Grantaire says, burrowing deeper and deeper into Enjolras’ chest, even when Enjolras didn’t think it was possible.

“We’re sleeping now,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire doesn’t fight, because Grantaire is tired in a way Enjolras can’t even begin to imagine.

In three hours, Enjolras is going to navigate them through the city and guide Grantaire into the apartment. In three hours, Enjolras will find a way to make everything okay.

But he gets three hours of being wrapped together with Grantaire, fucked up and perfect.

The train rocks quietly, and they drift off together.


End file.
